


Home by the Sea

by bluelamia



Category: Broadchurch
Genre: Family Drama, Gen, M/M, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-03
Updated: 2016-10-22
Packaged: 2018-08-19 07:37:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 36,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8196227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluelamia/pseuds/bluelamia
Summary: Twenty-five years after the death of Danny Latimer, Fred Miller is curious about his family's past. That means visiting Broadchurch, a town which has cast a long shadow over his life. Parts ways with canon after the first series, and focuses on how Fred's life might have been shaped by Danny's death.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for the first series; deviates from canon after that.

If you ever go to Broadchurch, do me a favour. Do it properly.

Don't let them convince you otherwise; there are only two ways to truly arrive: get born there or wash up on the tide.

Forget driving up in your Golf rental and don't bother with the bus. Grabbing a cab from the station'd be a waste of money. Visitors just passing through take the road—arrive that way and that's all you'll ever be.

You can't call me a visitor—I was born in the town's three-room maternity wing—but when Mum shovelled us in the car and fled, I guess the journey was every bit as hard as a labour and we all got reborn at the other end of it.

Was it hard for her to drive away?

I'm not convinced she ever really escaped.

Because, turns out, just as there are only two ways into Broadchurch, there are only two ways out: over the waves or in a box.

Mum got us as far as London, and although she could turn her back on the town, I don't think she ever stopped looking over her shoulder.

When I was a kid I used to think she looked out of fear. I was too young to understand yearning.

Twenty-five years she's lived with the shadow of those cliffs on the western horizon. Their shadow was cold over us, her sons, too. Broadchurch was a name we never spoke but could never ignore. Family holidays, she took us east. To France, to Spain, to Scotland. But we never went any further southwest than Stonehenge, and that was only after months of whining. That's how far those cliffs loomed.

I knew why. Mum never lied or made up stories. Dad's in jail—he killed a Broadchurch boy—and even before I knew the details, I sensed the murder my father committed was a cut beyond the usual.

A deed so awful it reached out and swallowed Mum whole, making her an untouchable. Unforgivable.

But for all their threat, those cliffs—which I knew only from the pictures Tom squirrelled away—were like the moon to me. A beacon, a thing to look to: some nights a barely-there sliver pretending to look the other way, other times so round in my imagination all I could do was sit and wonder.

One day, I vowed, I was going to meet these cliffs head on. Because like it or not, I was born in Broadchurch and I had a right to be there.


	2. Chapter 2

I have one—fluttering—heartbeat of fear as Sunny Sail slips away from its mooring. Rob and Jenna turn and wave and grow less distinct as they glide out of the harbour, and then I know it's real: I am in Broadchurch; and it's lovely; and it's sunny; and I have to tell someone, and it can't be my mother.

I dig about in my duffel bag; my phone has migrated to the bottom.

'Guess where I am?'

'A job interview?' Tom sounds hopeful.

'Ha.'

'The annual gathering of destitute film grads?' For all his extreme part-time pursuits, my brother leads a conventional office life on the fifteenth floor of the HSCR building in London. He's convinced he'll be paying for every family holiday for the rest of our lives because I'm never going to be any more than a struggling wedding vidographer doing pet tribute vids on the side.

'Sure, arsehole, but we're being kicked out to make way for the National Pricks convention, so I guess we'll be crossing paths shortly. Go on, guess. Really guess.'

Tom's sigh shivers down the line. 'I don't know, Fred … Shit'—there goes the penny—'does Mum know?'

'No, and you're not going to tell her.'

'That's right, and if you know what's best for her, you'll get the hell out of there.'

I wait to see if he'll say anymore. I know my brother.

'Fred?' You can't miss the catch in his voice. 'What do you think?'

My brother remembers Broadchurch through the filtering lens of childhood memories. Dad's taint shouldn't have touched him, but as far as I know he hasn't been back since he was 11. That's loyalty for you.

I think about his question, wondering what he wants me to say. I look around the tiny harbour, taking in the empty stretches of green sea water slapping up against the wooden piles of the wharf. It's not surprising on a glorious early summer Friday—everyone that can has put to sea today. Far to my right those famous cliff faces rear, but immediately in front of me is a stand of squat waterfront shops.

Tom can probably hear my shrug. 'Small. Fishy-smelling. The locals carry pitchforks.' An old timer cycles past me with a rod poking upright from the back of his seat. 'Real postcard material.'

Tom laughs. 'Just—be careful.'

I understand his concern, but taking in the scene before me, I can't help wondering if the bogeyman's as bad as they think he is.

Slinging the duffel over my shoulder, I make my way towards the shops. Time to test the helpfulness of the locals.

The first place I enter—the news agent—doesn't have what I need ('You'll want the tourist office for that'), but they're happy to give me carefully drawn instructions showing where to go. By mid morning I've found my way to a bustling High Street and am standing in front of a local beauty at an information desk.

'I think I'll manage,' I say.

She's been marking supermarket locations with stick figures on a tear-off info map, and I haven't the heart to tell her I only need to poke my head out the door to work out where the local Waitrose is. But she's trying hard, and I appreciate her effort.

'My mother was from around here,' I offer, and her face puckers in sympathy.

Curious word choice—'was'. Generations my family lived on this edge of the Dorset coast; I bet if I get up close enough, it'll be their bones I see poking out of the cliff face instead of the petrified shells and fossils others come to find.

Like her mother and her father, and their mothers and their fathers, Mum was born tumbling these massive hills and treading the waves.

Ancestry can't be erased. So my mother—very undeniably still alive—is also still very much 'from around here'. As much as she might wish it, she can't change that.

She'll skirt the topic in a typically pragmatic fashion. 'Broadchurch? Used to come from there.' Casually inaccurate word choice neatly erasing the past. She'll have you believe she's from London these days—and if you're not paying attention she almost sounds like it enough for it to be true, but Tom knows better. At Christmas—those Christmases when he isn't climbing mountains in South America or plotting some media-baiting arctic trek—he makes it a challenge to see who can get to the bottom of the second wine bottle quickest.

It's not about the wine or toasting absent friends (or family). When she's tipsy, her natural accent shows up like a long lost friend. It always makes Tom smile.

It usually leads to their other Christmas tradition: cranking up the stereo and singing along to the Smiths.

'And if a double decker bus crashes into us …' they'll sing before they drop back on the couch in fits of inappropriate giggles. Neither of them ever makes it to the end. Mum will simultaneously break into tears and laughter.

God knows what the neighbours think.

But Mum is a taboo topic in this town, so the less they know about the truth, the better. I don't correct the Carnival Queen, who has assumed the worst for my mother.

'What was her name?' she asks, handing me change for some postcards I've bought. 'I'm just here for the summer, but Jill over at the tearoom'll know—she knows everyone living or dead, and even the ones you're not sure about.'

I'm torn. It's on the tip of my tongue to say—people ask me a question, I generally give them an answer—but I have to fight this inclination. Still, avoiding a response might create unwelcome interest. I'm not sure how long I'm going to be here; people will talk eventually. Jenna, my playwright friend extraordinaire, has had two weeks drilling me in the basics of redirection.

'Jill, you say?' I look to where her cat-eye painted gaze has gone and spy the tables topped with sun umbrellas already filling up with tourists. 'I'll keep that in mind. Cheers.'

I grab the postcards and map and I resettle my bag, swinging round and stepping straight into the path of another customer. He must have been barreling through because we collide like trucks and my stash goes flying from my hands. He apologises and bends down before I can react.

'All right, mate?' he says, handing the postcards back. He'd be about my age—maybe younger.

'Yeah, fine. Thanks.'

'Might want this, too.' He's got the map. 'Never know when you'll need the nearest stick man shop.'

I take it from him and consider saying something else, but he's already moving on. The girl's cherry red lips curve up when he reaches the counter.

'Ready?' he asks.

'Just grab my stuff,' she replies.

With a vague and irrational sense of disappointment, I think I've been forgotten. But the guy's dark eyes follow me in the reflection as I leave, and then, so do the girl's.

On the street I take a moment to clear my head. Although I've never been here, I'm confident I know the way. The length of my stay may depend on the success or failure awaiting me at the end of my next destination. I recheck the map.

Some of the streets have the whiff of middle class newness about them—Spring Close, Rose Way—but I'm not in that area of town. I'm on a street where the houses look fatigued, like they're pressed and straining to hold themselves up. I know the house I want by its address: 14 Black Street, Broadchurch.

Christmases, birthdays, there'd always be an envelope bearing big, scrawling letters spelling out the recipient's name—and the return address. I knock on the door at 14.

It opens and a tiny, pixie-faced woman (today with impossibly jet black hair) leans against the doorframe. She looks me over from head to toe. 'Tom told me to expect you.'

My smile stretches to mirror hers. 'Told you I'd get here one day.'

My aunt Lucy reaches out to hug me.


	3. Chapter 3

'Have you spoken to Mum lately?'

The tiny patio soaks up the full morning sunshine and Lucy chivvies me to a deck chair. So this is her place, is it? It feels weird to be here. We passed ceramic ducks on the hall walking through and I have to make some mental readjustments to what I know about my aunt. She disappears then returns with two steaming mugs and an ashtray.

'Last week. She seemed to think you were somewhere up around Norfolk.'

'I was—then.' I palm the coffee mug. 'Lucy, did she talk—as in really talk—to you?'

Lucy sits back and draws on a cigarette. 'Is this about your father?'

'Partly.' We're all open people—even Tom when he's relaxed—but Dad is a delicate topic. 'Parole hearing's next month. You know he's likely to get out, don't you?'

'Him and all that remorse he's packing,' says Lucy. Her eyes glitter. 'I'd like to see him turn up here.'

She looks at me and sees my grimace. 'Sorry, Fred, but your dad's scum and I ain't ever going to lie to you about that.'

I wave it off. It's one of the few topics my mother maintains complete radio silence over, but her blank eyes and slack mouth on visiting days used to tell me everything I needed to know. Mum wore black like she was dressing up to visit a funeral parlour. She'd drive us to Belmarsh twice a year, as zipped up and locked down as any inmate.

Lucy puffs. 'Do you know what he intends to do?'

'He's talked about being paroled to Cardiff but—'

She flicks a knowing look my way. 'You don't think he'll do that?'

It's amazing what letters, two visits and the occasional phone call a year can tell you about a person. Dad's never been anything but needy. Hungry for any and everything he could hear about our lives. (Well, not quite everything—we know not to talk about Alec any.) He says the right thing—he's cried and apologised more than a few times—but faced with him, in the 'family friendly' visitor rooms at prison, you don't forget why he's in there. He has an aunt in Cardiff—he talks about seeing her again, but sometimes when I'm talking to him, I feel my father is involved in a different conversation. One where he isn't a convicted child murderer, where he hasn't been incarcerated for twenty-five years. One where we're still a family of four: Mum, Dad and the two boys. He's never made threats, but I wonder what parole will mean.

'I'm worried he'll end up in London. Mum's got enough on her plate at the moment … I'd like—I'd like to bring her home.'

Lucy's eyes go big and she nods. But the movement's small and sad, and not filled with the excitement I'd hoped for.

'This is the last place he'd come,' I say. 'She could be at peace here.'

Lucy stubs out the smoke and runs her hands up and down her arms, warding off a non-existent chill. 'I don't know, Freddie. I don't know.'

'But why?' In frustration I grip the cup. 'If he's served his time, hasn't she?'

Lucy tips her head and I see her thinking.

I try again. 'Do people honestly care that much?'

It feels crass to think it, but kids get murdered all the time. Murderers might get stick, but usually most people just feel sorry their families. Mum drew the short straw with Broadchurch.

'This town remembers,' Lucy says. 'And Ellie … didn't help herself.'

This makes me look up. 'What do you mean? She left, didn't she? What more was she supposed to do?'

Lucy chews her lip. 'She was supposed to disappear, Fred. She was supposed to crawl under a rock so people could forget she ever existed in the first place. But she didn't. She never changed her name. She never sold the house. She took you boys to see your father—'

'I don't think she got any pleasure from that.'

'Doesn't matter. That's not how people think. And you can bet as much as they wanted her to get lost, they sure as hell wanted to keep tabs on her as well. She made that too easy.'

'How? Who'd know? Who'd care?'

Bar Lucy and Olly, my cousin, who moved away from Broadchurch years ago, I never recalled Mum keeping in touch with anyone in Dorset. And it wasn't as though Lucy would go talking. She could've sold her story years ago, but she never has.

Lucy shrugs. 'Cops gossip.'

That might explain it. Mum started her policing career in Broadchurch. When she left she took up a post in London with a cyber crime unit. She was part of a team which broke an international paedophile ring. She recognised a location in an explicit image and from it they managed to track down kids being traded for sex. It was a big deal at the time. There were stories on telly and current affairs shows. I didn't know Mum was a part of the team until she was presented with an award for her work. She didn't want to receive it in person until Alec grumped at her and said Tom and I deserved it. She had her picture in some of the daily papers, but although I know they wanted to interview her, she wouldn't do it.

'There's nothing I can say,' she'd reply if anyone asked her why not.

It made her name in police circles. But that was years ago, and although she continued her work with the unit (and was, I'd always got the impression, affectionately regarded by her team) she never stepped into the limelight again if she could help it.

'You think people resented the commendation?' I ask.

'Maybe.' Lucy nods. 'Some thought she was mocking Broadchurch, being so prominent. Like she wasn't doing what she was supposed to. Not staying under that rock. People didn't like it.'

'Sod them.'

'Maybe.'

As open as my family is, it's really only the facts of Dad's crime that we've discussed. Occasionally I'll get a bit more out of Tom, but he'll shut down as soon as he realises what he's let on. When Lucy or Olly visit we're all usually laughing, so there's never an opportune time to raise it with them. Me being here today though—there was only ever going to be one thing I wanted to talk about.

'How was it for you? For Olly?'

Lucy taps her cigarette pack and extends it to me. She smiles when I shake my head. 'Dirty habit,' she says, lighting up again.

'It didn't really affect us. Not the same way. Different surname, you see. We didn't count. Besides. We're from around here. But Ellie—I mean everything about it—it just raised questions. About them—their relationship. You couldn't get away from that.'

My aunt is tactfully avoiding the obvious. They call it grooming. Grooming for sex. And while he faced a charge for it, Dad was never convicted. They got him on murder in the end, the secondary charge not necessary to get the jail term they wanted. So while the school yard 'paedo' taunt stung, it wasn't legally accurate. But, Christ, was it loaded.

Being the son of a paedo was hell, briefly, in year 6 (until Mum worked out what was happening and pulled me out of that school). What was it like being the wife of one? Everyone wonders, and a lot of that wondering gets pretty personal.

Lucy drains the last of her drink. 'You got plans?'

'Book in at the hostel. Take a look at the old house …'

'Oh.' She seems crestfallen. 'I've got a spare—'

'Too risky, Luce. Me staying here's a dead giveaway. That, or your neighbours'll think we've shacked up.'

She chuckles, then relaxes. 'So you'll be here—in Broadchurch—a few days?'

'Could be longer … '

Lucy's having none of my evasiveness. 'You're up to something, Fred Miller.'

'Well, there is something.'

She fixes me with a stare.

'What happened to all our stuff? I mean—I'm assuming we had stuff? Mum lets the house out, but she can't have left everything in it. I'd've asked her but—'

'I've got it.'

'You have?'

'Well, it wasn't much. Your mum didn't keep the furniture or anything. It's just small things: books, photos, paintings you kids did—keepsakes.'

'If it wasn't much why didn't she just take it?'

'Everything happened in such a rush, Fred. I think she always planned to get it. It's just—there were other things going on. I never thought to bring it with me when I visited. It just got forgotten.'

'Can I see it?'

'Are you gonna give me the truth?'

I'll have to tell her anyway, but I've been reluctant about bringing it up because I know this isn't going to make people happy.

'Nothing's certain yet—it might not come off …' I reach into my bag and retrieve my prized possession, laying it in front of her. 'There's this story about myself that I know nothing about. Mum and Tom have their memories. I don't have that. I want to tell my story—I want to try and make sense of it …'

She eyes the camera like I've dropped some kind of rotting, dead animal on her kitchen table. I don't think she notices when her hands reach for her cigarette pack again.

'What? You want to make a movie?'

'Not a movie. A documentary.'


	4. Chapter 4

The house isn't hard to find. It's not as if it's been hiding. Anyway, it's got no shadows to hide in under the midday sun.

The streets are empty of noise; it's one of those very still, soundless summer days where only far off engines turning over or doors being slammed break the eery hum of quiet.

I wanted to be smart about this. Stick to the plan. Gather as much information—impressions, material, research—as possible under a cloak of anonymity. But the longer I spend here, the stronger the threat of exposure grows. I've passed people in the street knowing they don't recognise me—have no cause to know me—yet fearing I carry some visible mark betraying my secret like a lighthouse in the dark.

Lucy doesn't delay or attempt to dissuade me; she's smart enough to read the signs of restlessness—my hands fidgeting on the table top, my foot tapping against the table leg—and interpret what they mean.

About my plans she says little, and I can see the idea confuses her. All my shock confession elicits from her is doubt. Coming from anyone else I'd be insulted.

Okay, I am a little insulted.

What is it about being the youngest which makes you seem less competent? Like your family has to indulge your interests? Pat you on the head and say, 'A filmmaker?—That's nice, love'?

Both Lucy and Mum share (and I tamp down guilt admitting this is what I think) a pedestrian, concrete view of the world, unencumbered by over-active imaginations. Lucy's probably wondering what my camera can capture twenty-five years after the event. For her, fact is fact, black is black.

That Mum and Luce are so literal about the world makes the men they picked and the sons they had amusing. I never met Olly's dad, but Tom assures me he was a wanker prone to promising little boys remote control helicopters and trips to Disneyland which he never delivered on. Tom sounds so aggrieved whenever he mentions Olly's dad it's like he's channelling Olly's disappointment. Olly just shrugs when you bring it up. It's interesting to me how Olly's dad is safe territory for Tom to disparage. Our father is a much touchier subject.

Dad was—is—a different variety of bullshitter, of course.

Then there's Alec. People get taken in by his act. Aloud he focuses on facts and organises his thoughts logically—he's an arse to argue with—but you never entirely know what's going on in his head. And that's where he gets into your head.

Early on I threw a tantrum about starting school—I threatened to run away. Alec packed a bag, complete with Mr Bunny, paddled me out the door and told me to 'write us' a postcard when I 'got there' (wherever there was). Tom says when Alec opened the door ten minutes later I ran at Alec and pummeled his kneecaps, wailing because I didn't know how to write. It's family legend that within an hour Alec had me holding a crayon and printing my name perfectly. I was so proud when the teacher praised me on my first day of school.

Looking back, I can see that Alec was a crafty bastard—and it didn't matter how old I was because he always knew enough to out-maneuver me on the chessboard of childhood development. That takes a power, or a skill, or a way of thinking, beyond any kind of mental exercise my aunt appears to do.

I'm less sure about my mother. It wouldn't surprise me if she was actively choosing not to engage her imagination. She has this thing. She throws up a lot randomly. Well, not a lot 'a lot', but more than your average one or two unfortunate bouts of food poisoning a year. It led to one embarrassing family incident years ago when Alec started being a more obvious presence in the house and Tom put two and two together and came up with a baby.

We don't hold back laughter—Mum encourages it—but that's one story that never comes up. No one walked away from it without a red face.

I'm fairly certain there never was a baby (or even the hint of one) but Mum's never stopped unexpectedly jumping up from the sofa, or dashing in from the garden, hand clamped over straining cheeks as she makes for the loo. Sometimes she goes months unaffected, then—bam—she's on her knees over the toilet heaving. As far as I can tell there's no physical trigger, but I got a look in her eyes once—just before an attack—and if I had to call it, I'd say a thought, maybe an unpleasant memory, had popped into her head. I'd never ask her about it. Some things don't need to be mentioned.

Lucy is perplexed by my documentary idea.

'A documentary? How? There's not much more to tell, is there?'

I'm glad she doesn't ask why; she's not questioning the project—just the practicalities of it, I guess.

'I don't know what I'm going to say yet—I've got to start somewhere though. Looking around … getting a feel for the place …'

An eyebrow soars but she refrains from expressing any further opinion.

'You need directions?' is all she says as I transfer a few items from my duffel to a smaller backpack, juggling it to fit things in.

'Nope. Should be good. Lime Avenue, right?'

From the threshold of her home she watches me leave, arms crossed over her chest in unvoiced disapproval. 'If Ellie asks—'

'I don't expect you to lie for me, Luce.'

I mean it, too. Mum raised us with a dim view of lying. She's going to work it out eventually. All I'm hoping for is more time than less.

My original plan was to wait until dusk—or take an early morning stroll—when fewer idle eyes would latch onto the sight of a man pausing too long outside the murderer's home.

But I just can't wait.

I make beautiful plans—then I break them. Always have. Maybe because plans are like chains. Sometimes you want them to hold you in place; and sometimes they just aren't strong enough. And sometimes this aspect of myself frightens me. Because I did not get it from my mother.

Broadchurch is not a large place—nor is it easy to get lost. Lime Avenue is barely twenty minutes walk from Black Street. The signpost stands on a lean. If I were to follow its point, no doubt I'd end up in Australia. A trip to the other side of the world suddenly feels appealing, because when I look up I realise Lime Ave is much shorter than I expected and I'll be there in a few unhurried steps.

Although the street appears empty, I know people could be anywhere. The murderer's been gone a long time, but this will always be his place. His and the wife's. There'll always be a stigma attached to it. So I ask myself what it is I need from this experience. Get what I need, then get the hell out of here. It's a moment I've dreamed of for years—I should know what I want already.

I know what side of the street it's on so I cross to the other side. I train my gaze on the footpath, catching house numbers from the corner of my eye, until there it is. A shape waiting patiently for me to acknowledge it.

There's no way to be cool about this.

I don't know what I want.

My mind goes blank. I get nothing. No flash of recognition, no flood of memory. No sudden insight to myself or my family, no missing puzzle piece falling squarely into place. Not even the hairs on the back of my neck play ball.

It's a house. It's white, begging for a lick of paint. (Someone should tell the landlady.) The garden follows no discernible plan although the shrubs have been cut to a manageable degree. Its current occupants leave nothing outside to reveal who they might be. Only a blue dreamcatcher in an upstairs window hints at any character.

This house is mum. Nothing screams tragedy happened here.

Before I can stop myself I've put my hands up to frame the image, but there's no narration going with that picture. Sentences don't connect in my head.

Mute, the house disguises perfectly the remains of my imploded family.

As if my perfect family never existed here. Then I laugh. Because it never did.

If this house has anything to give, it won't give it to me.

The boy's home can't be far. Did Tom tell me they used to play together when they were small? That the boy—Danny—lived across a field from our place? There does appear to be a clearing behind the house. The nextdoor neighbour's garden is minimal and I move to steal a view. My feet slow and my heart mutters. My subterfuge—all this sneaking into Broadchurch and around it—is disrespectful. One look back at the house is all I need to feel my resolve collapse. To make my summer plans seem pointless.

My aunt is right. What story is there to tell?

This is just a house. That field is just a field. No-one's who they were twenty-five years ago.

I have to look away and doing so I turn my back on the house.

A 'for sale' sign hangs askew in front of the opposite house. It's not the only one on the market.

There's another rectangular posting at a gate three doors down. I want a broader view of the street and step back between two parked cars. Then I step back again.

The squeal of brakes is all the warning I get before a rush of hot air slams me to the ground.


	5. Chapter 5

The sound of a vehicle bucking to a stop is followed by a slamming door.

Embedded grit stings my hands and panic quickens my pulse. Did someone just try to run me over? I knew I wouldn't be welcome in Broadchurch, but killing me off? That seems excessive.

Boots pound toward me. With a grimace, I try to stand.

'Shit, mate!' Relief and anger mix in the voice. 'Are you all right? You just stepped ou—'

When he cuts off, I glance up and experience surprise too. It's the same guy who knocked me over at the tourist place. He's quick to recover. A firm hand goes out to help me up. There's no sign of the girl from this morning.

'Hello, again,' I wheeze. 'Mowing people down a habit of yours?'

'Mate, you were way out of line this time!' His grin puts me at ease, then he pulls the proverbial rug out from under my feet. 'The least you could do is offer me a drink.'

I'm standing but the cars and footpath go topsy-turvy. Maybe I knocked my head after all. 'Eh?'

'Did I actually hit you?'

He reaches out as if he wants to check for himself but pulls back as if he's realised he might have intruded too far.

'Clipped my bag—shit!'

I fell forward—hands and shins taking the brunt—so I don't think anything's broken, but my camera's in my backpack. I pat down the bag with a sickening clench in my stomach. My eyes pinch shut before I pull the camera out.

Thank god for sea breezes. I'd stuffed a sweater around it at Lucy's. It looks all right—no cracks. When it whirs into life, I sigh. 'No harm done.'

'That's a relief. What is that? Looks pricy.' The guy's dark eyes dance with mirth. 'What were you thinking, walking out like that?'

He turns around, taking in the house with the for sale sign—the direction I'd been facing when his van zipped by and airbrushed my backpack.

'Just—'

'Looking to buy?' The guy nods knowingly. 'That one's perfect if you fancy developing an intimate relationship with your local plumber.'

Maybe it was the fall, but I'm not sure what type of conversation I'm having. 'Pardon?'

'Poor drainage, dodgy pipes from the 30s, generations of long haired women. You do the maths.'

'It's okay, really—'

Maybe I had misunderstood.

'Number 21 over there'—he points to the brick bungalow three doors down—'you might be onto a nice little investment earner. Chrome plated fixtures, gold-rimmed throne, a Rolls Royce of a hot water pressure system—she's worth the extra expense.'

'Excuse me?'

Is he gabbling so fast because his adrenaline is running? It can't be everyday you nearly run someone over.

'But the real gem is behind you.'

At last the hairs on my neck jump to attention. 'It's not for sa—'

'Six six six Lime Ave.' He makes it sound like first prize in a lottery. 'Home, once, to Broadchurch's biggest shit. If only you could persuade him to give that place up, you'd have yourself a genuine piece of local history.'

This is moving much faster than even I'd have imagined. Horror rises from my stomach. It seems impossible that this topic would come up so quickly … he hasn't guessed my secret, has he? I knew I'd be sprung—but so soon?

I stare at the guy, trying to read his motivation. Dark hair, styled longish back on top with one side razored—a look loads of students are wearing at the moment. His workman's overalls don't say student—but, undone to his waist with the top and sleeves hanging down his back, they don't say serious tradesman either.

He's looking to my old home—but despite his words I don't see anger or disgust. Just a face screwed up in curiosity. If he wants to think I'm here checking out real estate, I'm not going to disabuse him of that notion. If he thinks he can trick me into some other sort of confession … Jenna's number one lesson on Sunny Sail comes back to me: 'When all else fails just stay silent, Fred. Let everyone else do the talking.'

I guess he's not expecting any response because he goes on. 'But good luck getting hold of him because he's well and truly locked up.'

Now there's a thought to make the blood freeze. Could this guy be right? Does Dad still have a stake in the house?

'You don't say,' I murmur to be polite. Word about Dad's possible parole can't be common knowledge in Broadchurch.

'Hardly a house on this street I couldn't give you the inside run on. Been in all of them except that one.'

That might explain the curiosity. Nothing is as tempting as the door you haven't been through—especially one with an infamous history.

'How do you know it's the pick of the crop, then?'

The guy laughs. 'I don't, really. Just spinning some shite. See if I can get a bite. You don't look like you're from around here.'

I decide to play along. I don't think my secret's out just yet, but I'm intrigued to hear this stranger's thoughts on the house. If he grew up here, he'll know all the stories kids tell. He looks a bit younger than me, so I doubt he knows any of the players, but kids grow up ferreting out everything, right? 'So how come you've never made it into that one?'

'It's a rental. The property manager has some deal with a firm in Dorchester. We don't do it.'

'We?'

He nods to the van and, for the first time, I notice the name on it. Latimer.

Latimer.

Suddenly that drink sounds very, very tempting. I open my mouth a fraction before his reply.

'You're a plumb—'

'I work for my dad.'

The universe is laughing at me right now.


	6. Chapter 6

Aunt Lucy is marshalling an early tea when I return, vegetables—carrots, cauliflower, broccoli, cabbage—laid out in neat regiments behind a chopping board. She doesn't ask where I've been; she thinks she knows. She doesn't know the half of it.

A sliver of glorious evening sunshine from a living room window slices her kitchen. I feel it, sharp on my back, as my bag slides off my shoulder and I straddle a stool at her counter. I still feel shocked cold.

'I don't remember the house.'

Lucy stops attacking carrots with a peeler, and pierces me with her glance. 'Why would you? You weren't more than a year old.'

I know she's right, but the visit hadn't turned out how I imagined. I poke at an apple in her fruit bowl, rolling it against the round curve of the smooth glass. 'You'd think I'd remember something …'

'I'd say not remembering was a blessing, wouldn't you?'

'Maybe—maybe I hoped seeing it would release trapped memories. I don't know.'

Lucy scrunches her face; she can probably smell the alcohol on my breath. 'God, Fred. Why would you want them?'

She's right. What kind of sad sob is jealous of the memories which hurt his family most? What Mum went through—what Tom suffered—let's not romanticise. They have a closeness forged in a cauldron that I was spared. It doesn't mean I've missed out on anything, even though I struggle to accept this.

I reach across and nab a carrot stick. 'Are you going to tell her?'

She play swats my hand. 'That you've been here? I already told you. If she asks.'

'What about my plans?'

She shrugs, picking up a knife. 'Depends. Let's see what happens first.'

My teeth test the firmness of the carrot stick before sinking in for the crunch. When that one's gone, I dare to grab another, keeping my gaze fixed on her as though we are locked in a kitchen-themed battle of stealing sticks. 'I met someone today. I'm meeting up with him for a drink tomorrow night.'

'That's nice.' Lucy's strategy is to feign nonchalance; she scoops up the carrots and plops them in a pot. Then she's onto the cabbage, lining the knife against the core. With thoughtless efficiency she excises the heart.

I don't take my eyes off her. 'Jamie Latimer.'

The knife clatters onto the bench.

* * *

'How can you be so stupid, Fred?'

Okay. So there's no mistaking Aunt Lucy's thoughts on the matter. She talks it out of her system, listing the unnumerable ways I'm an idiot.

We're finishing dinner—the meat's as tough as boots—victim of my aunt's dismay. My fault, I suppose.

Jamie Latimer.

How did this happen?

Fate chucked a large icy bucket of water on me—that's how it happened. I remember getting in his van—he offered to drop me off in town—and having a flirty, bantering conversation the short ride back. I was too stunned to think clearly. I gave an evasive introduction and explanation for my visit to Broadchurch. He was heading off on a callout and suggested meeting up for a drink after work.

My deer-in-the-headlights response slipped out in panic. 'Yeah—sorry mate, got something on—'

As I was about to slam the door, he leaned across and flicked me a card. 'Hey, Just Fred, if you change your mind—'

The van drove off and I was left staring at his card. I checked in at the hostel, then found the nearest pub and spent the afternoon downing pints of bitter, wondering what the heck I was doing here. I waited a full ten minutes staring at the message I'd typed before hitting send on my phone.'Tomorrow? ;)'

Aunt Lucy isn't giving up; she's still hacking away at her chop. I consider begging for mercy on its behalf.

'When he finds out who you are, when his parents find out—you know they're still here, right? God. This is gonna be a bloody mess. I ought to ring your Mum now—for fuck's sake—you're twenty-six. You should know better—'

When she starts repeating herself, I know she's battle-weary.

There's still enough ammo stored for a final shot. 'I can't believe this is you, Fred. You know what this could do to your mother, right?'

'Fuck, give her some credit, would you!'

Lucy looks me, eyes wide, mouth open.

Sometimes I think people—those who know the sordid truth—tread too softly around Mum. It doesn't come from a bad place—they want to protect her—but it's patronizing. Everyone says how _strong_ she is—why don't they _treat_ her as if she is?

True, I know Mum's not going to be happy about my trip to Broadchurch. But I'm not _not_ telling her because I think she can't handle it.

'Mum? She'll understand—she'll get it.' I say it with conviction, although I know I'm on shaky ground.

Lucy's shoulders sag and she pushes her plate away, finally admitting defeat. 'Why even think about it? Why even go there? How is it worth the trouble?'

I smile. 'Well, he is kind of cute.'

Lucy narrows her eyes; my attempt at humour is not welcome. 'Can you be serious about this? Your father murdered— _strangled_ —his brother, Fred. He—they … It—it's inappropriate!'

I stare coldly at her. 'How exactly is it inappropriate?'

She swallows but she doesn't back down. 'You know it is, Fred.'

'For fuck's sake, Luce.' I catch myself just before my fist smacks the table. 'He's twenty-three. He's not some kid. Neither am I.'

When I look up, fighting the stinging in my eyes, I see Lucy cringing. Fear or shame? I look down at my clenched hand and let it relax.

'Fred, I'm sorry.' She sounds sad.

My hand shakes; I watch it, noting the tapering length on my fingers—long and finely shaped like my mother's. Like Mum's.

Not Dad's.

'I am being serious, Aunt Luce.' It's the truth. 'I'll make a deal with you. Let me see those boxes tonight. I'll tell Jamie who I am. If he wants me to leave—I'll go, I promise.'

'Just like that?' She doesn't believe me.

'Yes. Just like that. I'm not a complete idiot.'

'You tell me that when I pick you up from A&E. You realise you're not playing a game, don't you? You'll be lucky if you don't get your head kicked in for this.'

'Guess I'm prepared to take that chance.'

'What about your plans? Your documentary?'

_The one you never believed in?_ It would be rich of me to have a go at Aunt Lucy considering how quickly I'm considering dropping my plans. But honestly? The documentary was probably a bit a self-deception. An excuse to legitimize coming here. Jesus, I'm flaky.

'I'll find some other way to do it.'

The chair scrapes on the floor when she pushes back. 'Okay,' she says in suspicious capitulation.

'Look—' I reach out to her. 'If Jamie Latimer can't cope with me being in Broadchurch, it'll answer my real question.'

'Which is?'

'You know.'

Lucy stands, shaking her head. 'Help me clear the table. I'll have a look once the dishes are done.'


	7. Chapter 7

A stream of dust from the rafters peppers the air. Despite my offer, Lucy has climbed up to find our family box herself. In the process, she's dislodged two decades of her own mothballed memories.

'Take this, will you?' Another box is lowered into my waiting arms. 'Just drop it on top of—ah'—Lucy twists back—'Olly's old rabbit hutch will do.'

The garage isn't big to start with—more like a bent bike stacked on a busted freezer stacked on the beat up car, all concertinaed into a space of garden shed proportions. A narrow path is mown between the outside door and the driver's side. By now we've hidden every free surface with a box or a bag.

'Are you sure it's here?' I was optimistic when she started, but it's hard not to eye the expanding mess with growing doubt.

She's on a ledge created from a loose hardwood board. Boxes deposited over time have formed horizontal strata. If you want the older stuff, you have to burrow deeper.

'Of course I'm—hold up. That's odd.' Her sandals wiggle into view, bringing her forward in time, where the newer boxes were put—just last year, she had said.

'This is it.'

'You found it?'

Luce is almost on the edge and she looks down at me. She rubs her forehead, leaving a grimy dash on it. 'Olly must have moved some things around when he came home last.'

My hands tingle when they connect with gritty cardboard; I hug the box close. It's weighty with promise; whatever it contains strains against the sides; nothing slides or rattles from within. Whatever's here is crammed in. It has to be eager to escape.

Lucy waves off my obligatory offer to help re-order her garage when I set the box on her kitchen table.

'Won't take long,' she says. 'Besides, maybe you'd like some—you know—space.'

'Thanks, Luce. You're a star.'

And she is. I know she wants to talk to me about Jamie again, but she's holding off.

Despite what Lucy thinks, I won't be alone at all—I'll have accomplices. A future potential audience observing through a glassy camera eye propped on a tripod, waiting for me to unearth my history.

The door clicks shut when Lucy slips out, leaving me with the box that's been undisturbed for more than two decades.

I stare at it.

It's one of those upright boxes, with a brand name in red print and a picture of a bunch of bananas. Modern still life.

Inertia grounds me.

It's not my box.

I've no idea what's in it—or why my mother never reclaimed it. Did she forget about it deliberately, or did it slip her mind? Maybe the things it contains no longer are important.

What right do I have to rifle through it?

I've shut the living room door. I've drawn the blinds against the fading light of day and to conceal my own furtiveness. The bulb in the kitchen casts an orange hue on the surface of the box, its thick coating of dust now like downy fuzz.

My hesitation is shortlived.

'A fruit box.' My mouth twists. 'No handle with care anywhere.'

I'd have laughed if the box said fragile.

Quartered snugly under each other, the flaps at the top bulge.

'I don't know what I'm going to find in here,' I say to the camera as I slip a hand under an edge in the centre. 'My aunt says they packed up in a hurry—'

The flaps spring away with a rasping sigh and I can't speak.

My gaze roves over loose sheets of paper—the uppermost layer. Turning one reveals a child's artwork and sloppy moniker. Tom. There's a sun and three brown bean people—two big ones holding the stick hand of a little one. The paint is faded but fresher in two crisp circles in the top left and right corners. Magnets, I'll bet, held this piece on the fridge a long time before it got whisked away.

At last I face the camera, presenting the artwork. 'It could be any five year old's painting—but it feels poignant that the first thing I touch from our box of family treasures is a picture of everything we lost.'

I leaf through a handful of the paintings, on the look out for something I might have done, but they are all too skilled to be the product of a one year old.

'I'm guessing these are all Tom's.'

I stack them beside the box. The next layer is as striking in arrangement as parquet design, geometric rectangles interlocking with Tretris precision. No room for space between the shapes of an old shoebox, books, gold trimmed photo album spines, and a plastic container. No room, with one exception: the plush ear tips of a stuffed toy poking through in a corner.

'Just looking, nothing's jumbled together.' Nothing betrays the speed of our departure. 'It makes me think whoever packed this box put some care into it. But I guess the question remains. If these things were so important, why did no-one come back for them?'

My finger investigates the many parallel edges sandwiched against and at right angles to each other. 'Photo albums, photos frames, a box of'—I dislodge a vintage chocolate box, which pops out in relief, and shake it—'jewellery?'

Necklaces and rings mainly. Most of it looks costumy, but a gold ring with a large gem catches my attention. 'Years in a box but its facets still glitter under light.' It has to be sapphire. My mother still wears a wedding ring but I've never seen an engagement ring.

I pry out an album which protests with celluloid stickiness, latched on to its neighbour and resisting efforts to be separated. It comes with a hiss. I consider looking at the album but put it to one side.

Now that the pressure has eased in the box, the rigid pattern relaxes, making it easier to lift things.

I group items with forensic care. The framed photos are instant thrills—my parents and Tom, all much, much younger. Tom's a full decade older than me. That's a whole ten years of a family and memories without me—times I've only been able to imagine.

'You all look so happy.' And they do. There's not one single photo in here which hints at the shadow to fall. My mother's faces in the frames beam with elfin spark, wide set, bright eyes, pixie grin. Her eyes are still large, and she still smiles, but her eyes and the smile no longer connect with the same lightness—not the way they do here. Young Tom has an easy charm about him. No sign of the cloud of solemnity dogging him as it does in every other photo I have ever seen of him (that wasn't for a publicity stunt). Dad and his gaunt cheekbones, his deepset limpet eyes—of all of them, he is the least changed. So far as to be unchanged.

'Now, who are these?' I ask, plundering heavier frames from the box. The metal has oxidised almost black; is it silver? The old-fashioned black and white photo has a sixties look to it—a young couple in their wedding photo. The woman bares a resemblance to photos of Mum at a similar age. Is this her mother?

Dorset born and bred, Mum's parents died years before I arrived. I don't think even Tom met them. Mum has very few photos from her Broadchurch days—and none of her parents. Wouldn't she want this?

'Delving deeper, there's cards, handwritten notes … two cassette tapes—again, handwritten. A videotape—' Like everything else I put them aside for further inspection before plunging my hand in for more.

'So you're a monkey,' I say to the plush toy. 'Here's your chance to tell your story. Who are you? And how did you make your way into this mess?'

Here by chance—something soft to cushion a more delicate treasure?—or here by right, and conveniently squishy?

It was wedged against a figurine, a comical finger high policewoman. There are two others—a mustachioed detective and a uniformed copper wielding a truncheon and a goofy expression.

The police trio have been nestled in fabric which, unfurled, is a white blouse. Add to the sharp little collar a trim blue tie: my mother's first police uniform? She kept the skirt as well.

There's a curious layer of odds and ends—buckles and badges and things begging closer attention, and then I hit something solid and smooth. It takes up a large portion of the bottom of the box.

'Hello. What might you contain?' I ask the wooden jewellery box as I put my thumb under the lip and try to raise the lid.

It doesn't budge.

'There's got to be a key in here.' The ornaments jingle and chink while I scrape through them. Finding nothing there, I try the chocolate box, but it, too, holds no key.

It's an exquisitely crafted box—smooth, golden wood—and resistant to my poking and prodding. The lid has hinges and probably opens to a deep chest; at the bottom there are two drawers, one on top of the other. It's unclear to me how the locking mechanism works; there is a single, solitary keyhole centred under the lip.

'Well, that's a bugger. The mystery lives to survive another day. Where is the key that opens the chest? And what could be in it?

'In the meantime, there are other things to look through.' I pick up that first album, amazed (and delighted) to discover there are dates and descriptions under all of the photos. All in my mother's handwriting.

The wooden chest is just one item from my family's box—and maybe not even the best. It's time to look back into the past. I turn off the camera—looking through someone else's photo album's never that fun—and prepare to learn more about my family.

Within minutes, I'm chilled and captured. The depth of my parents' betrayal deepens with every new page.

And I can't tear my eyes away.

Lucy finds me contemplating the final album when she pokes her head around the door. 'You okay?'

I look up, startled. 'Pardon?'

'I found some other stuff you might be interested in later—Olly had some things. And this.' She pushes a bulging bin liner bag through the door. 'The old one fell apart in my hands. I had to stuff everything in a rubbish bag.'

I pinch my chin. 'Everything?'

'It's your Dad's stuff.'

* * *

What do I do with all these things now I've unpacked them?

I'm standing, surveying my handiwork.

Putting everything back makes no sense—even if I could—but I don't know what else to do. I can't take them with me. If Jamie tells me to fuck off—or lets me know in some other fashion (as my aunt fears)—I suppose I can box it all then.

I need more time to go through it all. Lucy will be able to talk about some of it. Making an inventory would be a smart move—although lists usually bore me.

My mind strays back to the photos I spent an hour studying. There were beach trips full of buckets and spades and seashells and sand castles. Backyard barbecues, excursions into woods. They all went on a steam train excursion once, even putting the boys in Victorian clothes for the photos. When Tom and Danny started school, they posed, arm in arm, in their uniforms at the school gate. Birthdays, sports days, learning to sail, lunch at _their_ place.

It's impossible to forget this one photo—Tom and Danny: it must be dusk; Tom thrusts a marshmallow stick into a campfire, while Danny theatrically bears his teeth in preparation for clearing his stick off in one, disgusting, gooey mouthful. Mum, pregnant, sits off to one side, and Dad … Dad is kneeling behind the boys, his arms draped around their shoulders.

That image has made me its prisoner. I turned the page on that photo an hour ago, but I can't shake the image from my mind.

Dad's bag of things—clothes, Lucy says—I can't even go near. It's still sitting in its little slumping heap over by the catfood dish and scrap bin.

The photo albums are riddled with evidence—it makes sense, really. It's a wonder I'm only just working this out …

I knew Tom had known Danny, that they had gone to school and played together. But it was more than that—beach visits, barbecues, hiking trips—and it was all of them. Danny, Danny's parents, his sister, Tom. Mum. Dad.

'How could I be so stupid?'

Galvanised, I snap to, gathering the albums into my arms and striding to the living room where I can hear the canned sound of a TV soap.

Lucy flinches when I storm in.

'Why didn't anybody tell me?' I dump the albums on the couch to punctuate my accusation. 'They were friends. Really good friends.'

'Of course.' Lucy's brows knit together. 'Right from preschool. Tom and Danny did everything together. They used to follow Olly round everywhere, too.'

It's obvious she has no idea how shocked I am.

'Not Tom and Danny!—Mum and Dad and Danny's parents. They were all really good friends. I can see it.'

She nods. 'Mark and Beth.'

'I had no idea.'

She still doesn't get my confusion. 'To be fair, Fred, everyone knows everyone in Broadchurch. I suppose growing up in the city you wouldn't know what that's like.'

That's Aunt Lucy—words sinking into my heart as efficiently as her knife sinks into a cabbage.

Suddenly her concern about Jamie Latimer makes ten times more sense to me; the degree of closeness between his family and mine is magnified hundredfold.

That I'd been contemplating the idea of my mother ever coming back for a visit now is ludicrous.

Acquaintances—people you merely know, distant neighbours— _those_ memories and _that_ hatred might fade. But when it's friends—and family? That sort of betrayal brands deep.

But there's worse to learn.

'Pictures only tell half the story.' Lucy makes a sad face and reaches to a pile of scrapbooks next to her chair. 'I forgot about these.'

She flicks through one and I see it's full of newspaper clippings. My stomach tightens for a new blow.

'Olly's?'

'From his first job. His boss was old-school. Trained him to cut out all his stories.' Lucy's hands linger over the pages. 'I was so bloody proud of him. Couldn't believe it—my son, the reporter.'

She grabs another one. Its cover is worn along the fold as if it's been opened and closed many times. None of the others seem as close to disintegration.

'Olly covered the trial, didn't he?' I am wary. The internet is a strange beast. It's easy to bring up some original articles from two decades ago, but others you have to know where and how to look and even then that's no guarantee. You can still access some stories which were picked up by larger sites, but the integrity of the Broadchurch Echo website server must have been compromised at some point because very few of Olly's stories can be found now.

I've looked.

Lucy taps a page. 'Olly—the little shit—broke the story. Dropped your mum in a fucking mess.'

'How so?'

'He put Danny's name out before the police had said anything. He saw them down at the beach with the body. Worked it out. He knew Ellie was investigating and got her to confirm it. She got a right bollocking from Alec when he found out.'

'Mum was investigating? I thought Alec—?'

'Did your mum ever tell you how and where they met?'

'I know he arrived just before Danny's murder.'

'That's right. You lot had just got home from holiday. It was Ellie's first day back. She met Alec on the beach. Next to Danny's body.'

'Literally over his body?'

Mum likes socialising but usually without Alec. Possibly a good thing because I imagine answering the old "now how did you two meet" question might get a touch awkward.

'Ellie was his partner or sidekick or whatever they call it.'

'Mum was actually a part of the investigation?'

'Right up until'—Lucy makes a face, struggling with the words. 'Weeks and weeks she worked on it. Did you know they got flak for it? It was taking too long—everyone was incompetent, blah, blah, blah. I came to see her once—we weren't really talking and she was ignoring my texts—waited for hours for her to get home. She looked like shit. When I think about all those weeks she was working and then going home to _him_ … '

I've never really considered the length of the investigation before. 'Shit.'

Weeks and weeks. And she was actively working on it.

'She was called as a witness for the prosecution,' I say. 'I knew she wasn't called in her capacity as an officer. Alec testified for that. And some of the forensic guys. I don't know what I thought. I always just associated the investigation with Alec—he got all the glory.'

Lucy looks at me.

'Yeah, I know,' I say. 'Sick thing to say.'

She hands me the scrapbook. 'You don't have to look.'

I shrug. 'It's not like I don't know how the story ends.'

Only, turns out what I don't know was how the story _began_.

Olly's articles lay the whole sorry tale out chronologically for me. The small town peace rocked by a local boy's death, the horrific realisation it was murder. The weeks of investigative standstill—the police appearing baffled and blind. The fingers of suspicion whipping up a frenzy of small town madness—I'd never heard of Jack Marshall until tonight, but they'd hounded him to death for something my father had done. The paper going silent for weeks and then all of a sudden the frontpage bombshell explosion.

'Once Joe's name was out there, Olly stayed away from the story. He left it to his editor. She could've pushed him—they were all scrambling to talk to Ellie—but Maggie never did.

'Alec did a lot to protect your mum, and Olly and Maggie went along with it. Anybody— _anybody_ who truly knew your Mum'—here Lucy sounds angry—'knew she couldn't have known anything.

'When the tabloids couldn't get to her, they got _at_ her. Talking to 'friends' and ex-colleagues—no one I'd ever heard of. It was all trash, what they said. I don't know if she ever read any of it.'

I hedge my next question. 'Did the Latimers ever speak publicly?'

Lucy looks me in the eye.

' _Betrayed By My Best Friend_ —that was headline, I think.'

When she fled Broadchurch Mum had no time to escape with everything, so she put it in a box which got buried. Looks like I'll have to leave Broadchurch too with my own buried dream.

'There's no way, is there?' I press my hands against the scrapbook. 'She'll never be welcome back.'

And it's more than that.

Even if they welcomed her back, she wouldn't come.

I know my mum. She wouldn't want to rake up all that hurt all over again.


	8. Chapter 8

The pub where Jamie suggests we meet is across the road from my hostel. He's late and I'm tempted to get the hell out of here.

While it's still daylight. While nobody still knows me.

I'm set to go if I have to—slipping out by bus wasn't what I had planned, but knowing how to improvise is a practical theatre-of-life skill.

After discussing the box with Lucy, she agrees to let me store its contents in her spare room. We go through everything together while I make that inventory, although the only things she's able to shed any light on are the little comedic police figurines.

'They might be worth something today,' she says. 'They were a gift from Dad—set of six originally—because Ellie was so obsessed with being a copper when she grew up.'

'Where are the other three?'

Lucy ducks her head and mumbles something under her breath. Then she looks at me. 'We were fighting. I threw a book at her and it knocked a shelf on top of them. Three got smashed.'

There's sorrow in her eyes. 'God, she was angry. She was this far'—Lucy pinches her thumb and forefinger—'from laying into me.

'I tried to apologise but she wouldn't listen to me, so I got in a huff—we avoided each other for a month. Sisters, huh?'

I look up from my list. 'I never see you fight—not really.'

Sure, they have disagreements, but Mum and Lucy always seem tight. Growing up, Lucy visited us whenever she could since Mum obviously couldn't come to her.

'You reach a point when you realise life's too precious to waste on the petty stuff. And if you haven't got family, what have you got?'

All Mum ever wanted to do was be a police officer. Lucy's story gives the little figurines more meaning. They now have context. I arrange them in a line on a set of drawers in the spare room. I've been photographing items as I go and using an app to catalogue everything. I look back to Lucy.

'After Dad?'

Lucy nods.

'We put it all behind us after that.'

'You never looked for replacements?'

'It was too late. I've no idea where Dad got them from—I don't know anything about antiques. He died before I could ask—Ellie was 14, I was 16—heart attack.'

I've never asked Mum much about her family. Out of sight, out of mind. The answers to anything I did ask never stuck. But here, in Broadchurch, filling in the blank spaces in my family knowledge makes sense.

'Your mum died not long after, didn't she?'

'Several years later. She got to see Olly born, but she got very frail. Neither Mum nor Dad was that old when they died. Dad's heart went and the cancer got Mum.'

Cancer: scourge of the twentieth century. There's more you can do for it now—cures, even, for some types—but science has only done enough for us to play catch up. That beast is always two steps ahead. I'm almost too scared to ask. 'What kind—?'

'Lung,' Lucy replies, almost too quickly.

I nudge the little policewoman figurine more to the right. Got to make this picture perfect. 'That must have been hard.' I say it without swallowing.

Lucy's hand curls around her cigarette packet. 'I had Olly—and Pete was still around. Ellie was in her first year on the beat. We got by, I suppose. You just didn't think about it.'

Her pragmatism makes me shiver. I don't want to contemplate life without my mum. I used to have nightmares about her and Tom—even Alec—disappearing. Not coming home. Or us being in a shops or something, and me turning around and them not being there.

I don't know how I'd feel about Dad dying. There's a lot I don't know how to feel about my father. I worry about him being released—for his sake as much as Mum's. It's not the same world for a start. What's left for him in life?

I don't want him to die. I don't hate him—unlike most of this town—but the thought of him 'not being there' doesn't fill me with the same sort of gasping dread as the thought of losing Mum. Mostly I pity him.

Sudden I snort. I lost my father years ago—and it seems I never noticed.

There's a small impression on the base of the detective, as though he's giving us our very own clue. 'This could be a maker's mark. You could use that to track down—'

'You could just stand Jamie up. You don't have to go tonight.'

We've skirted around this topic. Lucy's held her tongue to this point. The strain must have got the better of her.

I smile. 'Do you want me to stick around for a while longer, Aunt Lucy?'

Her hand pulls a cigarette from the crushed box.

'With Olly being overseas, I hardly get any family visitors. It's been nice. And getting this stuff out—it's probably about time. It'll be sad to see you go so soon after you got here.'

* * *

Now, sitting in a corner of the pub's beer garden, Lucy's suggestion has a lot of appeal. It's still early but the garden is filling quickly. I'm confident many of these people are tourists; at least that's what I'm hoping.

Why is it, again, I need to tell Jamie anything?

It's a pleasant evening—sunlight filters through a clematis-smothered trellis enclosing the courtyard and late shift bees work the flowers. Music from inside is muted and distant and not ruined by overpowering beat. The bar staff appear to be fans of 80s rock.

I've been rehearsing my part in the conversation but life's harder to script than a play or documentary. And timing's an issue too. I can't just launch into my confession, can I? But if I wait to bring it up, that's going to make it harder.

It doesn't start the way I think it should. Jamie is too quick for me, and he's not alone. The tourist bureau girl is with him.

'Just Fred!' He greets me like an old friend. 'What you drinking? Shel?'

He's gone as soon as he arrived, heading to the bar, where the barman leans over in a familiar manner and the two are soon laughing over some joke.

The girl, Shel, shucks her jacket over the seat to my right and bestows a broad, red smile on me. 'So you're Just Fred? Jamie's got such a big head—he reckons he bowled you over right from the start.'

'My last date didn't try half as hard,' I admit.

'That's our Jamie. Never does things by halves. Thinks he's completely irresistible.'

The subject of our conversation returns, nursing three jugs. He grins at the girl. 'Remember you promised, Shels—only the good stuff.'

Shel, it turns out, is a cousin and here for the summer. We chat while she waits for her girlfriends to collect her for a planned movie night. Jamie and Shel do most of the talking—debriefing on the events of the day which includes a stinging critique on tourists who don't follow simple directions then get sulky when their campervans get ticketed or boxed in on the High Street where the sign clearly says they can't park.

Shel directs the conversation, but when she turns her attention to me, her questions aren't too penetrative. Nothing I wasn't prepared for.

'I'm a film grad—doesn't really set you up for the real world. I'm supposed to be looking for a proper job. Thought I might as well take a holiday now before I have to chain myself to a desk somewhere.'

By the time Shel's girlfriends eventually roll in, she knows I've got one older brother, I support West Ham and I have had precisely two significant long-term relationships: one with my beautiful, expensive HDX Divv film camera and one which ended in spectacular implosion and catastrophic collapse (he cheated). We bond over that one.

'What an arse,' she says in consolation. 'Cheaters are the worst.'

When her friends sweep in, she gathers up her bag and jacket, and extends an invite for us to join the girls' night.

Shel gives Jamie a wink when he waves them off. 'Talk to you later. Nice meeting you, Fred. You should come out with us on the boat sometime.'

In a way I'm thankful for Shel. It was a light, fun chat. The kind I'd have loved if Jamie wasn't who he is and I wasn't who I am. For half an hour I got a chance to pretend this wasn't going to end in its own small explosion.

'Would you be up for that?' Jamie interrupts my thoughts. 'Dad's upgraded the boat. We usually take it out every weekend.'

With another round of drinks in front of us and Shel out the door, I grab my chance. 'Mate, truth is I'll probably be leaving in the morning.'

'Shame.' And Jamie does look disappointed. I actually feel bad about coming clean. There's no way to ease into this conversation.

'I'm not sure this town is ready for me.'

Jamie's lovely soulful eyes telegraph defensiveness. 'Hey, we may be the sticks, but Broadchurch has caught up with the twenty-first century, you know.'

'Yeah,' I say, 'that's not quite what I mean.'

His expression goes blank.

'That house you haven't been in. The one on Lime—' I shake my head, frustrated at how badly this is coming out. 'The guy who owns that house? The one in prison? He's my dad.'

Jamie's jug is suspended between the table and his lips. I feel his disbelief. His face has darkened in a heartbeat.

'You're fucking joking, right?'

'In this town? Not much of a joke.'

'Got that right.' The beer finally reaches his mouth and he downs the last of it. 'Fuck me.'

_Sure. Why not?_

'I don't believe this.'

I reach for my phone. 'My aunt's expecting to pick me up from A&E—should I call for an ambulance now?'

I don't think the joke registers with him. He stares at me, the truth creeping over his face in small measurable increments. 'You're Fred Miller. Fred Miller—or is it Hardy now?'

Lucy wasn't making it up. This town _has_ been keeping tabs on my mum.

'Miller—they never married.' I force myself to watch him, looking for any sign one way or the other.

'How could they? Everyone says your parents never got divorced.'

He is definitely not smiling. The signs are not good. I command myself to stay calm.

'People probably say lots of things.'

'That's true.' His jaw juts out and his arms cross; there's real resentment in his voice. 'Why are you telling me this?'

'I didn't want to lie to you. To be honest, I didn't even know you existed until yesterday. I didn't plan on telling anyone who I was—I just had some things I wanted to do here—but when I realised who you were … '

A snare disrupts the corner of his mouth.

'You just planned on sneaking in here and what? Sneaking out?'

I shrug. 'Pretty much. What's it to anyone else what I do? I didn't commit any crime. I've got family here. I have as much right to be here as anyone—this is where I come from. Nothing changes that. I promised my aunt I'd tell you, then look at clearing out tomorrow depending.'

'Lucy Stevens is your aunt.' Jamie nods as he makes the connection.

I breathe in deeply, steeling myself. Groping (figuratively) for the words to explain my predicament.

'All my life I've grown up knowing about Broadchurch. Knowing my family had this whole other life before me. It's the weirdest thing.'

Jamie gives me a peculiar look, not hostile or combative, so I go on.

'I came here thinking maybe I could try and understand it all by recording it. Talking to people, checking out the town, kind of documenting my own discovery of what happen—'

'I know what you're talking about.'

His remark catches me by surprise.

'About your family having a former life,' he continues.

'My family?' It's my turn to be confused.

'No.' He scoffs. 'Mine. Like they've all got some history. Or they lived in some weird other dimension. My oldest sister had left home by the time I knew who she was. It's weird when they talk about things they used to do, memories they've got. When they talk about my brother.'

The darkness in his eyes has subsided and he settles back, his arms relaxing. He looks at me as though he's waiting for me to say something.

'So … it doesn't bother you that I'm here?'

Just as he shrugs my phone pings an alert. 'Well, I'm pissed off I won't be able to introduce you to my parents.'

My reply is automatic as I flick on my phone to check it. 'I promised my aunt I'd clear out if you—wait—what did you say?'

His face is straight. 'I guess your aunt's going to be disappointed if you decide to stay longer—since you've already told her you're clearing out.'

Suddenly he can't contain himself; laughter bursts forth. 'Your face! Fuck, it's cute. You look so shocked.'

I look shocked? That's because I am. 'You're taking this better than I expected.'

'Hey, I won't be telling my mum any time soon—and don't expect to get invited around to lunch tomorrow—but I don't see why you don't have as much right to be here as anyone else.'

The things we don't tell our mums, hey? Mine still doesn't know where I am, but her message is enough to remind me I'm not out of the woods yet when it comes to explaining myself.

And I can't even begin to hope Mum's going to take my news as well as Jamie has.


	9. Chapter 9

O glorious summer! O rolling fields of purpled heather. O drifting sparks of new kindled desire, catching every heart afire. Blah, blah, blah.

It couldn't last.

The personalised ringtone warns me to expect trouble. 'Shit.'

Jamie's eyes spring open. 'Who—?'

I put a finger to my lips in warning before taking a deep breath and answering. 'Good morning, Alec.'

'You'd better have a bloody good excuse.' No wasting words on pleasantries, then.

I stretch and yawn. 'Nice hearing from you, too.'

Beside me the blankets rustle. Jamie flings out an arm to hoist the duvet over him, exposing my backside to an unseasonable early morning chill. He mouths, 'Is that—?'

I nod.

My poor eardrum. Alec's fury pounds the cell connection. 'Is that all you've got to say for yourself? Your mother—'

At that my pulse quickens and my hand tightens around the phone. 'Does she know?'

I've been expecting this call—from either Mum or Alec—for the last couple of weeks. All they've had from me is a few messages, a non-revealing pic or two. Nothing to give away my location or who I've been spending time with. I knew it wasn't going to hold them off for forever, and I knew I should call, but I just couldn't make myself.

I've been having too much fun.

'That you're in Broadchurch? Not yet, but she will when I tell her.'

'Is that necessary?'

'So you're not denying it?'

On the one hand, dammit; I've fallen for a classic trap. On the other, _all_ he appears to know is that I'm in Broadchurch. The opening invective would have been far more colourful otherwise. It's hard not to be resentful. 'Did you actually know where I was, or did you just take a stab in the dark?'

'Your mate Rob's not very good at lying.'

I rub sleep out of my eye. 'Rob? What's he—'

'Ellie thought she'd try and reach you last night. When she couldn't get you, she tried Rob—thinking you'd be on the boat together.'

'Oh, yes?' I scratch my chin. 'What did he say?'

I never asked Rob or Jenna to lie for me; I just never thought Mum would call them.

They've been living a dream, spending several months sailing, going wherever whim and wind takes them. I've known both Rob and Jenna since school; they know Mum, and they know about Dad, about my family connection to Broadchurch. They offered to sail me here, and (all going to plan) collect me in August. They knew I had been vague about my intentions with my family, but we never discussed arranging a cover story.

As far as Mum knew, I was sailing with them. My last great hurrah before attempting to join the real world of full-time employment. Mum was unimpressed, but since I'd saved up for it working part-time, plus the fact I am more than old enough to make these decisions for myself, there was little she could do except make a mealy-mouthed face and tell me not to take any unnecessary risks.

At the time, Alec was less restrained. 'You're fucking taking the piss, no?'

Alec has a little problem containing his opinion.

'They had a right old chat, did Rob and your mum. Rob told Ellie you were out for the evening but you'd left your phone behind—and not to worry, he'd get you to call in the morning.'

'Seems fair enough,' I say.

Good old Rob. I owe him a beer for the effort.

'You without your phone?' Alec's sneer is audible. 'When your mum was out of the room, I called him back to get a real answer. He was surprisingly more forthcoming.'

'What did you threaten him with?' I ask with genuine interest. Alec's been terrorising my friends for years. They love him for it.

The dig about me and my phone is unfair though. It would probably amuse Alec to know Rob was sort of right. I'd let my phone battery drain down to nothing (by accident) last night, and while I'd had presence of mind to set it on recharge, I hadn't checked it for any messages or alerts.

And then I got distracted.

Jamie chooses this moment to run the tip of his finger down my chest. He smirks at my quiver. I make a face and roll away. Alec and I get on, but there are things I know he definitely does not want to hear about in soft porn detail.

'Look, Alec, Rob and Jenna put me down in Broadchurch two weeks ago. I'm not here to cause any trouble. Just learning the lay of the land, seeing the sights, catching up with Lucy.'

When you grow up in a household where honesty is not just the gold standard, it's the only the standard, you're smart to learn its elastic qualities—otherwise your social life is sunk. It's a matter of sanity and survival.

'If that were so, Fred, you could have been in and out in two days—not a fortnight.'

'Fine. I'm here for my own reasons. None of which I have to tell you—but, please, Alec. Let me tell Mum.'

'You've got until the end of the day.'

Fair enough. I'll have a few pints at the pub tonight and give her a call then. Alec's nearly disconnected the call before I remember. 'Hey! Mum's OK, isn't she? There's nothing to worry a—'

'Aye, she's fine.' It's not unusual for Alec to be terse, but his abruptness takes me back. Had there been a small catch in his voice? Once we've finished, my hands bring the side of the phone to my mouth where it taps out my concern.

'Was that your step-dad?'

I turn to Jamie. 'I told you. They never married.'

'Yeah, but—'

'He kind of is, I suppose—it's hard to explain.'

For a time, in my earliest memories, Alec was not there. Then he was. I didn't question it. I knew he wasn't my father, so I never called him Dad, although he certainly took the place of a father.

'Wasn't it weird? Your mum getting together with him?'

I study the ceiling, rolling onto my back. 'Weird? No, not really.'

'My parents thought it was strange.'

'Did they?'

On the subject of family, Jamie and I have stayed coy. Since meeting up in the pub, we've spent most sleeping hours together. If the hostel staff know what's going on, they're professional enough to be discreet. Jamie's job keeps him occupied during the day, and when we meet up at night it's usually to go to a pub, often in a neighbouring town. Last weekend we went to Chesil Beach. I don't want it to be this way, but we both breathe easier outside of Broadchurch. We both know we'll have to talk about it at some point. Although, in the back of my mind, there's that tiny voice telling me it's a summer fling so why bother.

'Mum and Alec never discuss Broadchurch or anyone in it.'

That Mum struck up a relationship with someone wasn't weird to me. That it happened to be her old boss also meant nothing to me. But when I think about _them_ , maybe, I can see where Jamie's parents' surprise comes from.

'You can't blame my parents.' Jamie prickles when he is defensive. 'They talk about Danny a lot. It's inevitable your mum would come up.'

My hands lace under my skull. 'Mum doesn't mention Danny, but I'm certain she thinks about him.'

I explain my theory about my mother's bouts of sickness. 'I think she thought about Danny so much it made her ill.'

When I glance at Jamie, he's biting his lip—a fetching habit of his. 'Because of the vomiting?' he asks.

'Five years ago she got cancer.'

I want it to sound stark.

'But she's—'

'Yeah, she's all right now. They caught it early. But it still makes me think. I find myself wondering if things had gone differently, if she hadn't had so much stress, maybe the cancer wouldn't have developed.'

Jamie's face softens. 'I didn't know—I don't think anyone did.'

Only Lucy would have known in Broadchurch. She came to stay after Mum had an operation and a short course of follow-up treatment. Mum's colleagues knew what was going on, but she had been particular about only close friends knowing, and her treatment never had visible side effects. The operation had been successful and the follow-ups precautionary.

'The famous Broadchurch jungle drums missed that announcement.' I shrug. 'Would they have cared?'

Jamie looks thoughtful. 'People still talk about them—your parents.'

'Talking isn't caring.' Of course they still talk about my parents. I doubt the tenor of the conversation has changed much in twenty-five years.

'People didn't know what to make of your mum hooking up with the detective who arrested her husband—I know that much.'

' _I_ don't know what to make of them. Sometimes I think they're just what the other needs, but then they bicker like you'd never believe. Watching them fight is like watching a spectacular electrical storm unleashing itself in reverse your living room. Mum can lash out with the most funny, ridiculous insults—usually after Alec's lost his temper and thunderclapped around the flat in his slippers and dressing gown. Ten minutes later they're discussing tea and scones and sunshine like the storm never happened.'

Jamie laughs. 'That could be anyone's parents.'

Make no mistake. These are take no prisoner fights. Nothing's for play. But nothing's held onto. I'm glad anger is one thing Alec and my mother can both let go. It's other emotions they cling to more tightly.

'They're as bad as each other. They're just both so—I don't know—wounded. Like they try to hide it but they've been damned to eternal suffering.'

Too late I realise the ridiculousness of romanticising my mother and step-father's scarred emotions to the son of a man and woman who had their child brutally murdered.

'It's nothing like what your family's gone through …' I say quickly.

Jamie hauls himself up, grabbing his jeans from the floor. I check the time on my phone. Six in the morning.

'See, that's what people like to hear,' he says. 'Your mum's supposed to suffer. They still hold her responsible, you know.'

I scramble up. 'How exactly? What exactly did she do? As far as I can see it, she tried to do right by everyone. Danny's death all but destroyed everything for her.'

Jamie disappears into his T-shirt as he yanks it over his head. 'I don't know your mum—or your dad. Or Hardy. But you can understand _my mum_. She thinks it's impossible your mother didn't know something. To her that's pretty much unforgivable.'

My hands grip the sheets and I bite back an urge to fight on my mother's behalf. She does not deserve this cruelty. She doesn't.

With my new found knowledge of the murder and what happened after, Jamie's comment lances the heart of the matter. His mum and mine had once been friends. When Dad throttled Danny, he choked the life out of their friendship too.

And like that, the missing piece of the puzzle drops into place. It's not the town stopping Mum from returning; it's Beth Latimer.

'Yeah, well, if it's suffering this town likes, it should be delighted.' I can't help myself lashing out. 'God knows Mum's not getting any peace any time soon.'

Jamie looks at me. 'What do you mean?'

'I'm surprised you don't know.'

'Know what?' He stares at me.

'My father's got a parole hearing next month. He's had two already, and he was close to getting it last time. Chances are he'll be out before summer's over. Don't they tell you this? I thought the victim's family got special notification.'

From the look on his face, I can tell my news has shocked Jamie. He's shaking his head.

'Do you think your parents just haven't told you?'

He shakes his head again. 'No. We're a family in this.'


	10. Chapter 10

The run of good weather in Broadchurch has turned menacing—a stiff breeze from the sea no longer a dependable comfort in the afternoon. Heat radiates off the glossy headstones as Jamie leads me across a patchwork field of grave sites. We've already shed our t-shirts. A sheen of sweat slicks my skin.

Wild flowers and clover heads droop under the intense generosity of the sun. Little now to celebrate about their joyous escape from the cemetery worker's savage blade.

The aroma on the air is pure garden roast—steeping lawn clippings and motor fluid, sizzling lilies and singed chrysanthemums.

Jamie stops at a gleaming black headstone close to a low stone fence.

In Loving Memory of Daniel Latimer  
3rd May 2002 - 18th July 2013  
Our Danny, Forever loved

His body's down there—what, 6ft? The boy Dad buried. Put his hands around his neck and squeezed. The whole thing seems crazy. Crazy that this kid's body lies just below me—that I'm scant feet from the person whose death derailed my whole life. That all that separates us is some barrowfuls of sod and the paneling of a casket.

The setting asks unsettling questions of my father. Who'd throttle a kid? _Why?_ That's a question which frightens me because I know the answer. My father killed to protect a secret.

The sweat trickling down my back might be from a chill as much as the heat. Anything less than honesty scares my mother. This places makes me feel _why_.

Dropping to a knee, Jamie brushes dried yew needles from the stone, careful to avoid knocking the poppy, geranium and clematis blooms packed in a jar in front if it. 'Mum keeps it tidy. We used to come up here once a month. I think she comes up alone too. There's always fresh flowers.'

That's enough to send another shiver through my body. I look over my shoulder, suddenly apprehensive. 'She wouldn't come today, would she?'

It's Sunday. Growing up, there were no graves for us to visit, but if I had to guess I'd say Sunday would be the day for it. We aren't alone here—two or three visitors shuffle among the tombstones in the shaded garden closer to the church.

'She's already been.'

I peer closer at the grave and see that the poppies stand brighter and stiffer than tributes left on neighbouring headstones.

'They're off to some barbecue by now—one of Dad's coastguard mates.'

I thought the news about my father's parole hearing would have horrified the Latimers—and maybe it will—but Jamie told me as we ate breakfast this morning he'd wait to tell them.

I was expecting outrage. Jamie gives me a shrug. 'It's not like we didn't know it was a possibility. It's not like anyone's afraid of him. I saw a picture of your dad from his sentencing—he was sniveling.'

That stings. _Sniveler or not, he_ strangled _your brother._

Jamie has no clue what I'm thinking. He continues, 'I want to work out how I'm going to tell them—they'll want to know how I found out.'

I look at the headstone again. Does tending this grave ease Beth Latimer's pain or keep it stoked? The longer I stare, the more my shoulders and cheeks sear. Even the sun burns in indignation.

I had planned to visit Danny's grave—but I never expected I'd be doing it with a living Latimer. Jamie suggested the visit after I asked him if he ever thought about his brother's murder. 'The murder? Not so much. Not at first. Usually someone'll mention him and I'll wish I could've known him. _Then_ I think about why I don't.'

Now, staring at the grave, I think about Jamie not knowing Danny. So, maybe the murder isn't the first thing he thinks of when his brother pops into his thoughts—but it's always the last thing, the final thought. Always.

_There will never be a happy ending to this story._

The realisation makes it painful to breathe. I squeeze my eyes shut and wince. That's the risk you take with secrets.

'You could just tell them … about me.'

Jamie's head whip around. 'Are you joking?'

When he sees I'm not, he glances away. 'Now's not a good time, what with the wedding and all.'

It sounds like an excuse, but I don't say that to Jamie. His oldest sister is getting married—at last, apparently. Cousin Shel is to be a bridesmaid, as is Jamie's other sister, born a year before him. (They call themselves the Latimer family reboot, he jokes.) The wedding is set for August.

Chloe, his older sister—Jamie hasn't said much about her. There is a significant age gap between them—almost double the decade that separates Tom and me. She doesn't live in Broadchurch anymore, but according to Jamie, Beth and Mark Latimer were overjoyed when she and her longterm partner decided to make it official. They're coming home for the wedding.

Jamie turns the conversation away from his family. 'What about your mother?'

Yeah. Indeed. What about my mother? Alec won't break his word—I have until the end of the day to tell her. If I don't, he will. But how much will I tell her?

Jamie doesn't want to hurt his mother, and I don't want to hurt mine. There's no comparison between our secrets and Dad's.

'C'mon,' Jamie turns to leave. 'Might as well take the coastal walk up on the cliffs while we're here.'

It's a day for confrontation—not people, but places. The grave, Lime Ave again, retracing Danny's final steps … I've suggested none if this—it's all come from Jamie. I'm not sure what his motivation is. I told him about my documentary plan early on, but I glossed over the details, fudging my commitment. We haven't discussed it since.

I want to do it—I want to see these places. See how they fit into Jamie's family mythology. The heat saps any good sense I have and any will I have to exercise it.

He'd been quiet at the grave. It's only as we're walking away that Jamie seems able to talk about Danny.

'There's things I'd love to ask him, you know?' Jamie swoops down to collect a fallen branch and swings it at a thistle head. 'Mostly I just want to ask him how he got himself into that mess in the first place.'

'What would you have done?'

'In that situation? Not get killed?' His laugh is short and hollow and dies quickly. When he speaks again he is serious. 'I don't see how I'd've let it get to that point. He sounded like a bright kid—always making everyone laugh about something. How'd he let himself get caught?'

I don't have an answer. I know what the psychologists would say, but who really knows?

A name catches my eye. 'Stop a moment?'

Gerald and Elaine lie here—in a double plot on the shadowed side of the church. Lichen traverses and explores the borders and letter indentations on their shared headstone.

A plant reciprocal set into the base of the grave now holds a putrifying floral miasma, organic slurry drying and caking and cracked crisp around the metal edges.

Gerald Thomas Brown, 1940 - 1987  
Loving husband and father;  
and his beloved wife,  
Elaine Margaret Brown née Williams, 1939 - 1991  
Loved parents

Jamie takes in the names. 'Your grands?'

'The dates fit.' The lichen doesn't lift when I scrape a fingernail under it. 'It hasn't been that long. None of the others around this age are as covered.'

Jamie refrains from saying what we're both thinking. Even the lichen is complicit in the burial of my family. It seems strange that a stain can sink back in time too.

Lucy is the last family representative left in Broadchurch in any position to honour the dead.

Lucy, I think, cares more for the living.

Thinking so is no slight on my aunt. She spent years remembering us—our special days—and getting to London when she could. If she chose to devote her energy to the living, I doubt the dead would begrudge her that.

It takes a dandelion to correct me—Lucy is not the only family member left in Broadchurch today. I pluck the stem and then a handful more, and lay them in a tiny heap at the base of the headstone.

* * *

'Fred!' Warmth flows from my mother's voice—even across the phone waves. 'How are you? _Where_ are you?'

I can tell Alec hasn't told her anything and she has no suspicions. All I hear is my mother's curiosity and natural exuberance.

'Hi, Mum. How's it going? Alec tells me you guys have finished the kitchen?'

I couldn't launch with the truth—that'd be too bald—too … 'Confession of a Guilty Man'. I'm hoping just to slip it in. Make no fuss. Sell it with a shrug.

She chuckles. 'All done—but not without casualty. I'll bet Alec didn't tell you about the cat, the spanner, and his big toe—'

I can hear grumbling in the background. Alec being testy probably. He might have been a brilliant detective (he's retired now), but Alec's home handyman 'adventures' are family legend. Mum's a safer bet with a hammer and wrench.

'I can guess—bet his toe is a healthy shade of purple now.'

We laugh together, and then I suck in a breath and step to the edge of the diving cliff. Well. Here goes. 'Mum, I'm in Broadchurch.'

The line goes silent. Deathly. I'm holding my breath. I don't think I've even blinked. My chest is starting to ache. The silence scorches.

'Okay.'

Her voice is small, distant, low.

'I won't do anything stupid—I'm not here to make trouble.' Words tumble in my hast to reassure her.

Again there's a beat of silence. Two beats. Heartbeats.

'Okay.'

There's no way either of us can recover this call. Mum needs time. 'Mum? I—I've got to go. I'll call you again. Tomorrow, I promise.'

My body shakes when I tap the phone to end the call. The muscles in my arms quiver. My stomach clenches when I realise I've straight out lied to my mother. I told her I wouldn't do anything stupid.

I already have.


	11. Chapter 11

'Do you think I should leave?'

Condensation has beaded and dribbles down my pint of beer. I've had no more than a gulp. Instead I've been locked into position, staring down at the disintegrating foam head. Fizzling out pretty much the way my summer plans have.

'Up to you, mate.' Jamie downs his own drink without glancing my way.

While I appreciate that he is not the clingy sort, I wouldn't mind a bit more resistance to the threat of my departure.

We're back at the pub across the road from my hostel, and I am still smarting from my latest call to Mum.

It was a conversation full of long pauses, miss-starts, and hapless interruptions. There was no acrimony, but I felt restraint. Mum—bless her—had no trace of anger or remonstration in her voice; she asked polite questions that required no in-depth answers, nothing too revealing.

But when the call ended I struggled to identify the source of my dissatisfaction. It had been as if we were sitting in the room together calmly speaking of everything except the shortening fuse sparking at our feet. It was the sixth or seventh call I'd made since I told her where I was. They've all been like this.

My mother is hurting.

'It's not like I'm doing anything here.'

Jamie laughs. 'Your brother's right—you need a job.'

Financially I'm okay. I'd planned for this, but with little movement on the documentary side of things, there's little point to my days. Mum is hurting for no reason, it seems. Broadchurch is a nice town, but there's only so many walks along the beach you can take before the scenery gets monotonous. Besides, after our first stroll along the cliff top—past the hut where Dad killed Danny—I have developed a distaste for hill climbs. And I prefer to walk the other way along the coast, too, which limits my options.

My funds don't stretch far enough to hiring a car, so right now a push bike is my main source of transportation. I could bail. Bus to Taunton and catch the train back to London. Be back in half a day.

'I need a better plan,' I tell my weeping drink.

'Maybe Alec was right.'

My eyebrows shoot up.

'You didn't need two months in Broadchurch to fill in any missing holes in your life. You've been here, you've seen everything, you know more about what happened—you could have done that in two days. You've got nothing more to stick around for—except me, of course,' Jamie adds with a smug grin.

'Sheesh, the conceit,' I say. 'Dunno, really. I had this fantasy playing out in my mind. I'd come here, talk to some people, find out things had moved on …'

'What?' Jamie tosses me a curious look.

The words catch in my throat. 'Don't laugh—actually, don't say anything. I wanted to see if Mum could ever go home.'

Jamie pinches the rim of his empty glass and turns it, intent on the pointless rotation. 'It's a free world.'

'That's not what I meant.'

'I know what you meant.' At last he stares at me.'You're wondering if she'll ever be welcome back here.'

'It's your town. What do you think?'

His face hardens and he sizes up the pub and its mainly tourist clientele. It doesn't matter that they aren't from around here; they stand in for the citizens of Broadchurch. They cast the proxy vote. _Should the paedophile's former wife be let back into town?_ I wouldn't rest my hopes on their decision.

Jamie is measured in his assessment.

'Could your mother ever return to Broadchurch? Yeah, she could. Would anyone spit in her face in the street? I like to think we're more civilized than that.' Jamie draws out his conclusion with a dramatic pause. 'Would she feel ever _welcome_ here?'

The shaking of his head answers his own question. Maybe he can hear how harsh he sounds. His mouth twists in a compassionate grimace. 'Do you think she wants to come back?'

'Yes.'

'Has she said so?'

'I don't think she dares.'

Jamie turns away from me. 'As I said. It's a free world.'

Explanations are the last resort of the weak—explanations and exhortations to karma. I know I shouldn't, but I'm tired of no-one sticking up for my mum.

'It's like a wound that won't heal. Her whole life was here, everything she was connected to. She lost everything.'

'She still had _you_.'

I shut up.

'Talk to my mum about a wound that never heals.' He doesn't say it unkindly, but his point is well made. When it comes to loss, how does anything my family experienced compare?

I bite my lip until I realise I'm not ready to let this go. Letting go _feels_ wrong.

'Your mother holds mine responsible for what my father did—that's what you told me. Your mum's wrong— _anyone_ who thinks that is wrong. Maybe nothing will ever prove that, but it is the truth—only no-one's ever going to believe my mother. You can tell her go to hell if you want—she's there already anyway. It isn't _right_.'

And that's what bothers me. 'You know—Dad got a trial. Mum didn't even get that.'

Jamie pulls his phone from his pocket and checks it. Then he looks at me, his dark eyes full of—what? Pity? 'Emergency callout. I'm out of here.'

He stands and grabs his jacket. He goes no further than two steps before he turns back to me. 'My parents don't have their son. _That's_ not right.'

* * *

I fume all the way from the pub to my private room at the hostel, slamming the door hard enough to knock a ghastly pastel print of the wall. The glass in the frame smashes with a satisfying scream.

I don't disagree. The Latimers _should_ still have their son. It's fucked up. And Dad should and will pay—for the rest of his life—but Mum's never going to get a fair hearing. She'll never get the chance.

It seems unlikely Jamie will return this evening and I'm not going to message him. He's never going to see it from my point of view—and I'll just end up ramming my head against a wall in frustration trying to get an ounce of fairness from him for my mother. Right now I'm so angry I could thro—

Jesus.

Where did that thought come from? It's just an expression. Just an expression people use when they're angry. People don't mean anything by it.

Except, in my family, that's not true.

I need to be calm. I need to breathe. I need to talk.

I haven't visited Aunt Lucy for a week, but she keeps early hours—I'm not sure she'd appreciate me disturbing her for relationship advice. Ditto Tom, whose long string of ex-girlfriends isn't a great endorsement in that department either. Wherever Rob and Jenna are, they're not answering their phones.

Mum's out of the question. With grim amusement I imagine the phone call I might have with Alec. It almost makes me laugh. I feel some of the tension drain away.

Lucy it is then.

She agrees to meet me on the waterfront. It's a calm night. The streak of hot weather hasn't broken yet, and the night is balmy. We meet up and stroll to a bench on the promenade. As we sit the waves surge and crash below us.

Luce lays a consoling hand on my arm. 'Sweetie, you knew from the start it was a bad idea. For so many reasons.'

'I know you're right—but I kind of really like him.'

She snorts at the absurdity. 'Kind of? Don't feel the need to commit yourself _too_ much.'

'I've known him not much more than a month, Luce. Bit too early to be picking out china patterns.'

'You said it yourself, Freddie. Danny will always be there. It doesn't seem—you know—very even. How'd you get around that?'

'So you think I should go?'

Lucy shifts and wraps her arms around herself despite the lack of cold. 'Up to you, kiddo.'

Later, as I lie lonely in bed, my mind plots my escape. It's simple, really. If I'm up early enough, I can catch the 7.15am bus to the train station.

It's not bailing on Jamie—it's bailing on this town. Maybe if we both lived somewhere else … but Aunt Lucy is right. It doesn't matter where we are, we'll never be equal—even if we pretend.

Jamie's an early riser. If I message him at 6 in the morning, that will give him enough time to choose to see me off if he wants. After last night, he has to see it's for the best. It's not like he seemed that upset by the idea.

And it's not running away.

* * *

The shrill beep of my alarm shocks me awake. Turning it off, I see the message icon on my phone.

It's from Jamie. _'Perfect job for you. See Shel this a.m. if interested.'_


	12. Chapter 12

'I met your dad today.'

Jamie is usually so laid back that when he flinches and draws away from me I'm surprised.

All it takes is a flicker of his long lashes and he has recovered, letting out a snort. 'Yeah? You're still in one piece.' His grin is verging on a smirk.

I wish he'd take this more seriously. I know the idea of his family discovering me upsets him more than he'll admit, and I don't think it's because he's concerned about my safety.

I've tried talking to him about it—and by "it" I mean everything: us; this fling; why he doesn't want his parents to know about me; why he never reacts but always finds an excuse to have me stay when I mention leaving …

When I arrived in Broadchurch I had no intention of boldly striding up to the Latimers and proclaiming my identity. I had a sense of needing to be careful and not drawing attention to myself—but I never imagined myself sneaking around _to deliberately avoid them_. That's how I feel I'm behaving with Jamie. Like I'm sneaking around.

I don't like it.

The last time Jamie and I talked about it, I grudgingly agreed there was no point telling his parents since Rob and Jenna were only weeks away from collecting me.

Jamie doesn't see any reason to needlessly upset them—especially because of the wedding and now also the parole hearing, blah, blah, blah.

On the subject of my mother Jamie remains grim. He can see my point of view, he says, but he can't speak for the town and he wouldn't invite her back out of respect for his parents and their community.

I get it. He doesn't want to disappoint his parents. Maybe who I am makes me just that little bit more exciting—puts a little bit of risk into his life. But in unguarded moments—like when we visited Danny's grave or when we talk about how strange it is that our families have this terrible entwined history—I find myself almost liking this town. Almost connected to this place—or to one person in it. I like being with Jamie—as infuriating as his cocky can't-shock-me attitude is, there's something about him. And, there are times when I think Jamie feels the same.

 _Wake up, Fred. Everyone gets a summer fling once in their life._ If this is mine, I might as well just enjoy the best bits of it.

It has only taken six weeks for me to run into one of Jamie's parents. In a town the size of Broadchurch that seems kind of a long time.

'He's got quite a grip. Thought I'd need surgery.' I hold up my hand between us and massage between the bones in the palm. 'He may not know Fred Miller is in town, but he gave Fred Brown a long stare.'

People say I look like my mother. I like to think they're not just being kind. Still, there's always a chance something about me, the familiarity of my name, a look of Dad about the eyes, will give the game away. Besides, it doesn't matter which parent I take after—neither is welcome here.

Or so I've been told. My run-in with Mark Latimer has got me thinking.

The man who introduces us—the local yacht club commodore, Trevor Chapman—saves me from having to say too much. 'Fred's here doing some work for the information centre—bit of luck getting him.'

I nod, raising my camera. 'Promos, vids for the website—that sort of thing.'

I'm down at the yacht club doing some shooting—boats coming and going, characters on the wharf, generic sea shots. It's a great gig, actually. They've given me free rein to produce a series of videos suitable for their social media channels—all under the table, so not too many questions.

Trevor is about to take me out on his launch for a few coastal grabs. We've gone into the two-storey clubhouse (empty during a work day) for him to drop off some paperwork. On the way through the wide lobby to the stairs, we've passed a (in my opinion) heavy handed large oil canvas of the cliffs, along with photos of past life members. I recognise the name on one portrait: Jack Marshall. It gives me an inkling of what to expect. Sure enough, two steps later a photo of Danny Latimer takes up a large portion of wall space.

My glance is quick, and Trevor doesn't stop to say anything about the shrine. How quickly our faces fade into history.

Trevor is keen for me to see the view from the social room upstairs, and he leaves me there to wait while he disappears into a cramped office.

I find myself transfixed by the seascape in the frame of large Channel-facing windows. Today it is velvet, stretching smooth and unknowable ahead of me, curving in graceful mystery beyond the horizon.

You exist differently on the sea—you do not mark the passage of time the same as on land. I had been determined to sail into Broadchurch. Hurl myself upon its cliffs and rail against their implacability. Nothing else seemed mighty enough to deal with their cruelty.

The water will wear those bastards down.

The crunch of tyres on gravel draws my attention to the carpark on the other side of the building. I watch Mark Latimer's van pull up and the man himself step out.

'That's good timing,' Trevor says as we head downstairs. As soon as he has a side door open, he's calling out. 'Usual culprits, Mark—God knows what they do to it.'

Apparently the girls' toilets get blocked after every junior p-class sailing lesson on Wednesdays.

On his way in, Mark shakes my hand and gives me a grin reminiscent of Jamie's. His clasp is so tight, I fear he is trying to squeeze a confession out of me. I hold it together, sorting through the various scenarios I've rehearsed.

Should I slip in that I know Jamie?

I don't know how much he's told his parents about me—if anything. He still lives at home, so he must have explained his absences somehow. Or maybe they're used to it?

 _Fred Brown_ knows who Mark Latimer is. He has to. It would look strange (in the long run) if he doesn't say anything.

'You must be Shel Latimer's uncle.'

Since I've been working with her, Shel seems a sensible compromise. I use her full name. Not too familiar.

A flicker crosses Mark's face. He grins again and says yes and makes a joke and suddenly we have a connection—however small. The moment passes as we head our separate ways—but the connection has sparked a worry in me.

An obligation.

* * *

'Do you think he had any idea?' Jamie asks. He has propped up himself up against the bed head and is drinking crappy hostel tea while scrolling through his phone.

I'm still lying stretched out—too lazy to move even though Jamie has made two cups.

'Didn't say anything if he did.' I look up, watching Jamie closely. 'Seemed all right. Reasonable.'

Jamie decodes my message. 'Yeah. Well, you weren't there when I told him about the parole hearing. Zero to ballistic in naught point negative ten seconds.'

The reaction of his mother, a runner, was no less intense. Jamie says she pounded out her rage for hours on the footpaths of town, only stumbling inside when toe nails were blackening and blood blisters swelled on her feet.

_Steady on the drama, mate._

His warning is clear. He does not want anything further upsetting his parents.

But I can't help wondering if his parents' reaction is less to do with the possibility of my father getting out and more to do with them not receiving the paperwork.

They were formally notified days after Jamie learned the news from me. Neither intended to be present ('he's not worth our time'), although they planned to prepare a victim impact statement.

It's an impasse. Jamie and I both know what it is—and what we are. And that we have no life beyond summer. We have both convinced ourselves it's worth it.

* * *

The job Jamie got me with the tourism bureau takes my mind off him, his parents and my father's hearing. The bureau's loaned me use of a car in the mornings, and in the afternoons I usually head back to the office to edit the material.

Other than Aunt Lucy, Shel is the only person who knows about me and Jamie. And while she doesn't know why, she knows Jamie is not keen on anyone else knowing. I get the impression he has tossed around vague allusions to a jealous ex.

Shel has an endearing habit which gets me every day. Taking a red marker from a drawer, she slashes an emphatic X through an office calendar. She doesn't know it but August 5 is the date I stare at longest.

I've never allowed myself to think much about Dad getting out. It all feels … surreal. Banal and surreal. Shel has bullet point reminders on her calendar for that day. I mentally add my own to her list: dentist, 2pm; wedding rehearsal, 4.30pm; pick Dad up from prison, 5pm.

I find myself making excuses to stay longer at the office—and I think Shel's company is partly why. She has a wicked sense of humour and a kind heart. Once, I arrived to find a tea towel-covered basket at the ancient terminal they'd uncovered for me.

'What's this?'

'That pub hot pot's not doing you any good, Freddie my boy. I am saving you from early cardiac arrest.'

On lifting back the cover, I found a chicken salad and several little containers of extras.

'Pick 'n mix,' she had said with a smile. 'I didn't know what you liked.'

Most days now I find something healthy left at my desk.

They're all friendly at the bureau, but best of all they let me get on with the job. They're not asking for Bafta standard vids—but after weeks of not indulging, it's fun to get back to the basics of what I love doing. I'm happy to work well into the evening to get tasks done to a standard I want.

Looking over my shoulder the afternoon before the hearing, Shel is generous with her praise. 'They're _so_ not paying you enough. These look really good.'

I can only agree. Compared with what they had—cheesy music and graphics, rough voice overs—I've revolutionised their marketing materials.

They trust me enough to let me stay past normal office hours into the night. Tonight, when I admit to myself there's nothing more I can do to improve the last video of the day, I look at the phone on my desk, sigh and pick it up.

Alec answers. 'Fred?'

I draw a breath. 'Do you want me to be there?'

'You're asking this now?' Alec delivers me a dose of wry contempt.

I don't reply immediately. I know I deserve it.

He sighs. 'There's no need for you to be here—just stay on in Broadchurch finding yourself or whatever it is you think you're doing. There's a plan in place.'

'Plan? What plan?'

'The plan you'd know all about if you bothered calling more than once a week these days.'

I let him get his irritation out.

He carries on. 'If Joe gets parole, Tom is going to take him.'

'Take him? Take him where?'

'The circus, for fuck's bloody sake. Cardiff! His solicitor's putting forward his aunt's place as a suitable address.'

The phone grows warm against my ear and I stare off at the over packed stand of tourist brochures. This is my small family and we leave no-one behind. Not even an immature, never-grew-up child killer.

I realise, with some guilt, I haven't spoken to Tom for several weeks. Once Dad passes from the care of His Majesty's pleasure, does he become Tom's burden? Mine? One of us will have to keep the family lifeline out. We could set him adrift …

'What happens then?'

'He'll have strict conditions on his life licence. If he breaks them, chances are he'll land up back inside.'

Something callous and practical in me finds that an appealing outcome. Perhaps it would be for the best?

'Has he—does he want to see us?'

'Do you want to see him?'

I puzzle over this. 'I've never wanted to cut him out—but it's going to be weird.'

'You don't have to tell me,' Alec mutters.

'Has Mum spoken to him?'

Alec pauses. 'He knows she won't be with Tom.'

What a sight that would be: dwarved by the gates of Belmarsh, my father, all worldly possessions stuffed in a black plastic rubbish bag, bobbing back and forward as cars go by, straining for that first glance of the one that will drive up and rescue him.

What goes through _his_ mind when the car pulls up and he sees not the wife or the son he left a quarter century ago but an angry young man in their place?

Of course my father knows what we look like now; Tom and I give him a photo every Christmas, and we make an effort to visit. But no-one—and no thing—has been waiting for him all these years. Time did not stand still on land, and neither did we.

I ache for the poor, hapless, dumb father in my imagination.

'Alec?'

'What?'

'I'm glad Mum's got you.'

* * *

Dad gets parole. Tom messages me to confirm it. I find myself walking out of the office, past the shops and cafés.

Lucy meets me on the promenade with a hug. There are people around who might see but I don't care.


	13. Chapter 13

'He bawled his eyes out, Fred. For christ's sake—how the man lasted in maximum security prison, I'll never know.'

Despite his grousing, Tom's trip to Cardiff is going as planned—Dad has been installed in his aunt's quiet two-bedroom bungalow in a village on the western outskirts of the city.

The nearest primary school is a mile away, and the neighbourhood is full of commuters, lifestylers and pensioners.

Tom has sneaked away for this phone call, leaving Dad and Great Aunt Alwen eating their meals of 'grey steak and sludge' on metal tray tables in front of the telly.

'Won't be such an adjustment from prison food then, will it?' I point out.

I've gone back to my stuffy room to talk to Tom. No need to share this conversation with the backpackers seeking respite in the air-conditioned common room. This has been one crazy summer weather-wise.

'It's depressing.' Tom doesn't say if he is talking about the set-up at Aunt Alwen's or Dad's emotional reaction to freedom.

'How was the drive?'

'Long and uncomfortable'—he checks his negativity—'no—it was all right. Once he got himself under control.'

'What set him off?' I push open a window in the forlorn hope of circulating a breeze. I needn't have bothered; the air outside is as still as dead water. A tight band of pressure is building across my forehead.

'The stress of it, I suppose—he was disappointed Mum didn't come even though I warned him.'

'He's never really got his head around them splitting up, has he?'

Tom's exasperation explodes. 'He's had twenty-five bloody years to get used to it.' My brother is all about doing the right thing—however onerous; he gets plenty of practice with Dad as his father.

Dad has got parole because he is no longer seen as a threat to society. To be fair, once the conviction came down, he never denied killing Danny. And he's always expressed remorse. But he still seems unable to grasp (or accept) _why_ he did it.

Tom tells me that during the hearing our father acknowledged his contact with children can only ever be while under supervision and that his reporting schedule will be strict.

'He was vehement about sticking to the conditions of his release … '

The way my brother trails off I know he is bothered.

'But …?'

'He wants to get back into cycling and jogging—and he asked if I still skateboarded.'

'Good God.'

Skateboarding. That was his excuse to get close to Danny. I found that out reading Olly's accounts of the trial. I wasn't much interested in boarding when I was growing up, and thinking on it, I'm convinced Mum found ways to steer me toward other hobbies.

_He's nearly sixty-five. Too old to get on a board again._

Visiting Dad in prison, it wasn't uncommon for me to wonder who he was really talking to sometimes. 'I'm not that sort of man,' he had said once, ostensibly to me—but as though it was himself he was trying to convince.

I don't think my father has ever realised what everyone else knows. He's never grown up. He never really matured. There's no way that's possible.

The trouble is, unless you know what to look for, he does a good _show_ of being an adult—how else could Mum have been taken in?

Maybe what's sad is that Dad is unaware he is an actor.

Or he is in denial.

_Can you blame him?_

A warm shiver runs down my back. 'Do you think he's going to make it?'

Tom turns his exasperation on me. 'What do you mean, 'make it'?'

'You know. Survive on the outside?'

'Who knows?'

Dad's release has touched off a number of phone calls and messages.

Rob and Jenna are on their way back to Broadchurch and expect to be here about Sunday. They want to 'stick around for a few days', which is their way of saying they want to meet Jamie and see all the places I've been talking about.

Alec has not-so-subtly asked several times what my plans are and when I'm going to 'take my head out of my arse' and come back home.

Then there's Mum.

Our last conversation, earlier this evening, was … peculiar. It's a good thing I'm leaving in less than a week—she's made some uncanny guesses about my stay.

'You've met someone, haven't you?'

I'm floored. 'Um—yes?'

'Do I get to know about him?'

'Ah—eventually.'

'But not today.'

'Mum, when I leave here, I won't be coming back. I'll leave everything about this place behind. It's a nice place, but it's not home. _You_ mean home to me.'

'Oh. Well, that's a bugger. I was hoping to get rid of you one day, Frederick. Alec's been eyeing your room up for his train set collect—'

'Alec doesn—oh, ha ha.'

Mum doesn't press any further on the topic. My assurance that we'll talk about it one day is enough. I don't know where she gets her faith from. Since I'm not ready to talk about Jamie, I cast about for another topic.

'I—um—cut some clips you might—I mean—I don't know. Only if you want to—'

'Videos of Broadchurch?'

'While I was doing that stuff for the tourist office—remember I told you about that?'

It had been a relief to find a neutral topic about my holiday which seemed safe enough for us to discuss—or me to talk about and Mum to listen politely. I had stayed away from flashpoint place names—so no mention of cliff shots or trips to sea. And it turns out there's more to Broadchurch than its most salient features anyway.

'I remember.' There's a catch in her voice that perplexes me.

'I made some for myself—or you could check out the ones the bureau has online already.'

When Mum doesn't answer I mentally kick myself. Images of Broadchurch are probably the last things she probably wants to look at. 'Mum—I'm sorry—'

'It's okay, Fred. I understand. I'd like to see what you've been up to.'

Her voice is kindness—forgiveness—and I sense at long last the fuse that was burning at our feet has fizzled out and it is just us and we can talk. Maybe that's what put that tiny quiver in her voice.

I risk the question I've always wanted to ask. 'Do you miss it?'

Mum knows what I mean. She takes her time and I almost expect another joke to diffuse the levity.

She surprises me again. 'I've got so many good, wonderful memories, sweetheart. Real memories of real times. That's enough for me.'

* * *

Once my family and friends are dealt with, I message Jamie, who had been at the wedding rehearsal and is now out to dinner with assorted family and wedding party guests.

There's no need to tell him—his parents have already had word. ' _Got message during rehearsal. Interesting day. Will slip out when can.'_

Bloody wedding. It's not like Chloe hasn't been with the guy for years and produced a stackload of kids with him.

Obviously, I won't be going, and it cuts time out of my final days with Jamie.

 _Grow up._ I flop back on my bed with a groan. Jamie and I are just bad timing. Wrong time, wrong place. Wrong families. _Just accept it._

My head feels heavy and I dream of taking to my sinuses with a hammer. A nice tiny little rock hammer. That'd do the job. By the time Jamie gets here I'm either going to be dead asleep or hunched up in misery.

With so few days together left, I don't want to waste any time we might have. _'Bring drugs,'_ I send back to him.

_'? ;-)'_

_'For headache!'_

When he knocks on the door and lets himself in, my pent-up breathe emerges as a whimper. For a moment my head clears and I find him staring down at me.

'Are you okay?' He kneels beside the bed. 'What do you need? I didn't know what you normally take, so I got, like, everything, literally.'

He holds up a bag.

He's not lying.

'What did you do?' My hand rustles around the bag; it's a choice between an assortment of vials and packets. 'Rob a chemist?'

'I got a few odd looks. Bet they have a quiet word with Mum tomorrow—make sure I'm not using. Here—' He hands me a bottle of water.

I move to sit up, but he stops me. 'Jeez, this room's hot. No wonder you look like shit. Wait here.'

He's gone before I can ask where it is exactly am I going to go.

Minutes later, he bursts back through the door, bearing a large pedestal fan.

'Where'd you get that from?'

'Friends everywhere, mate. You okay?'

'I am now.'

* * *

Jamie makes and keeps his promise to spend time with me before the ceremony and reception, but it's not a call from him I get on Saturday morning three days later.

He had stayed the night and left early like he usually does. I like a lie-in and must have fallen back into a deep sleep.

'Shel?' I mumble after staring bleary eyed at my phone.

'Fred—thank God.'

My shoulders go rigid, tensing for the inevitable bad news.

'Fred, it's an emergency. Chloe's beside herself. The vidographer's just got tossed off a horse and is in surgery. Can you cover the wedding?'


	14. Chapter 14

Stepping inside the church is like passing into a kinder, gentler world. The cool stone walls, both refuge and fortress, both hold out the heat and offer sanctuary to those within.

The entrance way is awash with floral scent. Heading to the nave I take in the lilies and cornflowers—white and blue—adorning the ends of each dark pew, and the matching bouquets on stands by the altar.

I pause a moment beside Shel, breathing it in—the balm, the musk of old wood and paper prayer books. 'Went a bit overboard on the flowers, didn't they?'

'Don't they look amazing?'

She ushers me further into the church—a narrow, sombre space warmed by glowing sconces on the walls.

'You have no idea how grateful we all are,' she says. 'Jamie told me you couldn't come because of your other plans—'

It's on the tip of my tongue to tell Shel some of the truth, but I grit my teeth. If Jamie feels the need to lie to his own family that's up to him. I know why he didn't invite me and why he's going to freak out when he sees me.

A lack of invite didn't hurt—I share his uneasiness, but for different reasons, perhaps—and I've only come to prevent calamity from marring the Latimer family's day.

Aunt Lucy wasn't wrong when she said Jamie and I would never be equal. Where does this sense of obligation that I have to the Latimers come from?

'Did you get hold of him?' I ask Shel.

'No—he's off doing something for the reception with Uncle Mark down at the yacht club, I think. The brat hasn't messaged me all morning.' Shel gives me a lopsided smile. 'You're okay to do this and the reception, aren't you?'

My 'great plans' amounted to no more than crashing Lucy's place for the day and watching mind-numbing Saturday night TV. I let my bag slide off my shoulder and start unloading gear. 'If you can talk me through the order of service—where everyone's standing and sitting—that'll get me started.'

I've pulled in some extra cameras. Nothing high end—beggars can't be choosers—but you can do wonders with even basic equipment these days. The tourist office had a couple of serviceable ones which I used for alternate angles while doing the promos. Plus I've slaved in a few smartphones and can add more. Perhaps some of the kids in attendance would want to add their perspective? I always search for a special angle when I put wedding vids together. None of that crass cookie-cutter editing for me.

Normally I'd spend an hour or so going over expectations with the wedding couple. That's not going to happen today—so they'll just have to take what they can get. Only—there's a small part of me that knows 'just adequate' won't be enough—not for me.

Shel, who picked me up and got collected cameras from the office for me, helps me position some of them. I aim to stay out of the way, so no hand held camera for me today. I'm taking a punt on some angles—they're not going to halt proceedings for me to redirect a camera—so I'd better get them right.

My base set-up is tucked away on the far side of an aisle near the back. With cameras in place and hooked into my remote studio, I can control everything from an unobtrusive distance.

When I'm ready, I flick them on, each lens opening up in a block of windows on my tablet.

Shel whistles as she examines my tablet. 'You can see everything.'

'And I can control everything from one point. Nifty, isn't it?'

'Never miss an angel,' she says, laughing at the well known old slogan from the ad where the father tries in vain to film his toddler in her naïtivity play.

When I'm satisfied with the smaller cameras, I turn to my own trusted Divv which will provide my main picture. I want it in position for Chloe's arrival—let's face it: that's the point of the whole day.

Off to one side of the altar seems my best option and when I assess the image back on my tablet, I grin.

'Perfect.'

As soon as the word forms, a niggle springs up to cast doubt over my confidence.

Shel watches as I stalk toward the altar. 'Problem?'

The church interior is reasonably dark; natural light streams through an arch from a large stained glass window above the altar, but the rough finish of the stone absorbs much of it.

I turn around to face the empty pews.

In front of me, the second window is magnificent. Rich reds and blues and in the centre, a crowned white lamb bathed in light from Heaven. In spite of her own ambivalent feelings on religion, Mum insisted on taking me (Tom was gone by then) to church periodically. The symbolism isn't lost on me.

Strike me down with a ray of light. This is a House of Truth.

'Yes, _is_ there a problem?'

I jump at the male voice. One I don't recognise. A fair-haired man, moving beyond his middle years, stands in a doorway to my right.

'Maybe. That window,' I say to Shel, 'do you know what time the sun hits it these days?'

'Sorry—I wouldn't know.' She looks sheepish. 'But the reverend used to live here. He should know.'

From Shel's nod in his direction, I take it the newcomer is the reverend. He is already approaching me, hand extended. 'Paul Coates—nice to meet you.'

'Fred Brown,' I say, quelling the sudden misgiving I have about misleading a priest.

There is a slight frown on his face as he gives me a long look. 'I was expecting a lady, but I hear she's had a fall.'

He looks at Shel, who nods again.

'Will she be all right?'

'Sounds like it—but it was nasty. Aunt Beth says she's smashed her pelvis. She's gone round to the hospital this morning to leave some flowers.'

'Just like Beth.' The frown lifts and his tone changes. He turns back to me. 'You were worried about the window?'

'Just covering off any eventuality.' I hope whatever has caused his expression was nothing I've done. 'Lovely as shafts of light are, I'd hate to have the happy couple's moment ruined by a mis-timed one—or an ill-placed camera.'

The reverend smiles back at me. 'Some might count that as God's blessing.'

'Others might count it as cause for a refund.'

'You could tack on a celestial appearance fee.' His eyes twinkle.

I can't help laughing at his corny joke. 'He's never been a reliable employee. I can never guarantee his appearances.'

'About the window, set your mind at rest. The ceremony ought to be over by the time the sun passes it, and, failing that, if the bride arrives fashionably late, it looks as though the weather may play a hand in some divine intervention.'

'Oh?'

'Haven't you seen? The weather's set to turn.' He shakes his head. 'Two months of sunshine and Chloe and Dean pick the day the storm is forecast.'

* * *

Jamie looks terrific in a crisp black suit and white shirt. A rich blue tie matching the cornflowers sits at his throat, neat and impressive. He probably hates it, but he scrubs up nicely. The slim line of the trousers and jacket show off his lithe build.

The look on his face shows his shock.

The church is filling—the bridegroom's guests are all seated and Jamie is about to take his place as the Latimer family head (until the bridal party arrives).

As soon as he enters the church he cuts behind the last pew to move up the wall aisle to me. He must have got Shel's message.

Before he can say anything, I jump in, careful to keep my voice low. The echo of chatter in the church probably drowns me out, but best be safe. 'I wasn't going to say no—not to a plea for something like this.'

A movement behind me—another guest taking his seat—makes Jamie glance up and smile in greeting. When his eyes meet mine again, the smile melts.

'Please don't let anything spoil this—it's been a hard week for everyone.'

'Jamie'—I risk touching his hand—'sit down. This is a happy day. I'm nobody here. We camera guys, we just blend right into the furniture. It'll be all right.'

He straightens and I see his smile go back up. To any outsider, Jamie is playing his role—making sure everything runs smoothly. His shoulders go back and, with no further word to me, he retraces his steps and then strides up the aisle to take his place, pausing only to greet some of the groom's guests.

Naturally my father's release has upset the Latimer family. What it hasn't done is consume them. The night of the rehearsal, Jamie had told me, they talked about Dad, about his release and how they should respond. It was Chloe who had set the tone: the wedding now is symbolic of their indifference, their contempt and their determination to scrub 'nothing' out of their lives.

Jamie's entrance is a signal. The bridal party can't be far off. I catch the eye of some of the younger guests—Chloe and Dean's four children, whom I've roped into production—and they head out the door, phones in hand.

There's no sign of the weather cutting up yet. The kids' phones beam their pictures back from outside. The sky remains clear in the little images on my tablet.

The kids do their job perfectly. Three 70s Lotus cars pull up outside and one by one the Latimers emerge. Shel—who must have dashed back home and dressed herself in record time, another young woman—Jamie's other sister—Mark, Beth and finally Chloe—all captured by my assistants.

The bridal party assembles at the entrance to the nave. There is a pause for typical last minute preparations as the party arranges itself. Mother and father are not giving the bride away, but they exchange words with her under the window before the processional song.

I see Chloe smile as, backs to me, her parents lean in to hug her. Then they turn and start shepherding their giddy grandchildren up the aisle toward their father, and I have my first sight of Beth Latimer.

The Latimer women are all slight and all blessed with youthful genes. Chloe must be in her early 40s but could pass for someone a decade younger. Beth hardly seems old enough to be her mother.

It's hard not to look at Beth and feel my heart patter. It's too much and I avert my eyes to the window behind them until it, too, seems to sear my chest.

As weddings go, the marriage of Chloe Latimer and Dean Thomas does not stray far from the path of tradition. I've done quite a few now—my friends are starting to reach that age—I can almost recite 1 Corinthians 13:13. _'If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love …'_

Readings are beautiful, and full of poetic intent, and very, very hypnotic. Only when Paul Coates goes off-script do I find myself unable to resist listening.

'Paul's letter to the Romans tells us to love— _really_ love. He tells us to abhor what is evil and hold tightly to what is good. Chloe and Dean have been holding on tightly together to what is good in their lives for twenty-five years. And what is good in their lives has shone light in the darkness and brought joy from despair.

'Their love is a blessing—one we as their friends are honoured to share and celebrate here today.'

It's my mother my heart hurts for.


	15. Chapter 15

The little old lady taps my arm and wordlessly presses a tissue into my hand. How embarrasing. She departs with knowing satisfaction, exiting with the last of the other guests.

On my screen, footage from the slaved cameras pops up. Too many views to process. I don't know how long I sit here, inert, before I summon the energy to gather my gear.

When I've managed to do that, I'm left wondering how on earth I'm going to get everything down to the yacht club.

Anywhere else and I'd cadge a ride, no issues. The thought of asking friends of the Latimers for a lift seems as risky as asking Liverpool supporters for a lift to a Man United piss-up.

Jamie obviously isn't an option. The weather is still holding, so the wedding party has driven off for photos.

Aunt Lucy? No-one is around to see …

I pull out my phone, noting neither Rob nor Jenna has replied to tell me if the storm will affect their sailing plans tomorrow.

Footsteps echoing on the wooden floor make me flinch.

'Would you like a hand?' Paul Coates appears from the vestry.

'Wheels would be handier,' I say. 'By chance, you're not heading to the party, are you?'

Paul produces a set of keys from his jeans pocket. 'They didn't invite me all this way just to have me say a few words at the wedding.'

He leans over to pick up one of my bags. 'Shel Latimer said you were on holiday in Broadchurch. No family here?'

It's one of those questions which makes my pulse spike. Of all the places in the world, I can't lie in this church. Not here.

'I think I've got ancestors buried outside, but I didn't grow up in Broadchurch.'

Paul seems satisfied with my answer. 'It's a beautiful place. I always regret moving. Who knows? Maybe I'll retire here.'

When we reach the car park—and his very shiny, very late model Jeep—he glances toward the coast. 'If they're fast enough, they'll beat that.'

The westward sky is being swallowed up—the massive bank of a boiling thunderhead advances on Broadchurch.

* * *

Storm or no, the celebration is to be a big one.

The hall downstairs at the yacht club has been spruced up, decked out with stylish round tables and white table lays, and more white and blue flowers.

Caterers buzz in and out from the kitchen, bustling with steaming plates and pristine silver service. A club member serves early guests from the bar.

My brief for the reception is more of the same: catch key moments and a 'flavour' of the entertainment. I'm not expected to be here much beyond 9 o'clock—no-one ever wants the vidographer longer than that (although we all know that's when all the best bits start to happen).

The cameras are all set to go when the first wedding party car pulls in. I'm leaning against the lobby's wide double-doors overlooking the troubled sea. White serrations top churning waves. The channel—usually teeming with local fishing boats—is empty.

It doesn't pay to appear as if you're slouching, but when I see Shel pop out of the car I relax again. Until Beth steps out behind her.

It's too late to pretend I haven't seen them. Shel bounds up to me, pulling a shawl around her shoulders as a gust of chilly wind hits.

'Just in time!' She has to shout above the roar. 'The others are on their way back now.'

'How did it go?' I yell as the wind intensifies.

'Great. The pics will look fantastic thanks to this storm.' She whips around. 'Need help, Beth?'

Beth appears to be fussing over something and eventually, two of Chloe's kids—the two boys—emerge from the car. She holds little billowing jackets over her arm and hurries the boys up the three steps to us. The feathers on her facinator fly about. 'Joshua will insist on undoing his own car seat and then doing Jack's.'

I'm about to slip away but Beth has other ideas. 'I'm Beth. You must be Shel's friend. Thank you so much for helping us out today.'

She holds her hand out and all I can think is that I don't want to lie. 'Fred,' I say to this woman who deserves so much more from me.

Her smile is quizzical as she regards me. 'You're a familiar face—'

A squeal saves me just as a second car pulls up and Jamie springs from it. God knows what thoughts are going through his head.

Beth is already moving on—swooping to collect the smaller boy who has tripped on the carpet—but she twists back. 'I'm sorry. I'd stay and talk but those two tell me they are absolutely busting. Just who's bloody idea was it to dose them up on fruit juice while the photos were being taken?'

And like that, she's gone, disappearing toward the bathroom.

'It's all right,' I tell Jamie when he nears, his concern naked. 'Just go enjoy the night.'

He nods and heads inside.

I look up and find Shel staring. 'Is everything okay between you two?'

'We're fine.'

She does not look convinced.

I bargain with her. 'Can you do us favour? Can you just let it go tonight?'

Shel shivers in her shawl. 'Fine. See you inside, Fred—you owe me a dance.'

'I'll explain, I promise.'

I mean to keep my promise. The cold swirls around the doors—time to close them, I think. Fat drops of rain splatter on the deck. Jamie can have this night, but I can't keep up the deception. Shel deserves to know. And, as much as it might hurt, so does Beth.

Or is Jamie right? Would telling her be selfish?

I get no answers from the water in front of me. The sea does nothing but seethe.

* * *

Hand in hand, the storm and the reception get under way—and as the band strikes up and the chink of bottles and glasses grows louder, many of the guests show an interest in my job.

Chloe and Dean add their thanks when they arrive, and after a quick discussion it's clear the storm doesn't bother them and a few 'pyrotechnics' just add to the excitement.

It's weird talking to Chloe. I almost hear myself asking, 'hey, remember when you used to babysit me?' At any other wedding it would be a terrific ice breaker.

Trevor Chapman stops by my solitary table and peers down at my screen. He gives me a loud greeting, slurring his words and setting down his empty glass next to mine.

'Pity about the weather—are you getting any of it?'

'Sure am—it's all rather dramatic.'

Other guests—many are old-timers from the club whom I met doing the tourism vids—come up for a friendly chat. No-one seems put out by the weather. I suppose if you're going to have a storm, it might as well be a hurricane. If they want a storm, I could give them one.

The lightning is all out to sea, but when the hail clatters down, the kids get revved up and tear in and out of the lobby, and up and downstairs, until Uncle Jamie corrals them back into the main hall where the tables and dance floor have been set up.

Any other wedding reception and I'd be excited myself, but I find myself gazing for long stretches at the sea, feeling as alone and small as any little fishing boat might be. I might be doing a good thing (jury's out on that); I don't feel it.

What with the din of the party-goers and the storm lashing outside, it seems safe enough to talk without the risk of being overheard, but Jamie stays away. That is until Beth glides over to me again—to let me know the speeches will be starting—and then I see him hovering from the corner of my eye.

Beth comes bearing a drink. 'We should be looking after you better. Did anyone offer you something to eat?'

I assure her Shel has been keeping me supplied with snacks and drinks—probably too many, but anything to stave off my morose mood.

'Keep a camera on Uncle Bob—he thinks he's Michael Jackson on the dance floor.' She gives me an hawkish wink to which I try to smile. 'Thanks again, Fred.'

My name drops from her mouth and a flitter of confusion crosses her face. The same look I got from Paul Coates this morning.

She walks away, but her quick glance back rattles me. I watch her bump into Paul. She laughs it off with a comment, but when Paul looks my way, I feel even colder. I shake it off. There's a job to be done. Once the speeches are over, I'll just be free to start packing up. It seems unlikely Jamie will relent and ask me to stay on. That does not seem like a good idea anyway.

I check my phone again. Still nothing from Jenna or Rob—but I've got three missed calls from Alec.

He doesn't answer when I return his call.

I pocket my phone, ignoring a pang of unease. Three missed calls seems odd.

_Odd, but nothing to worry about._

Dean's best man has started his speech and has the crowd in hysterics.

 _God, not Dad. Shit._ I nearly upend my table jumping to my feet.

There are too many simple, simple ways my father has the power to disrupt our lives. Skip parole; 'accidentally' wander near a skatepark; turn up on Mum's doorstep; turn up in Broadchurch …

The sound of laughter drowns out the roar of blood rushing to my head.

I bring up Mum's number. The irony of calling her from this wedding party escapes me until her voice message clicks in and I realise she's not answering either.

What in hell's name am I thinking?

Cold waves run down my back. Alec isn't usually so insistent. Willing myself to stay calm, I pick the next name in my list of family contacts.

Tom answers immediately. 'Speak up, Fred, I can't hear you.'

I'm trying to keep my voice low. The guests are still laughing away. Someone's speech is going down a treat. I glimpse about the room and Jamie catches my eye. I can't look at him—and fall straight into the stare of Beth Latimer.

She is not laughing.

'Hang on,' I say to Tom, slipping out of the hall to pace the lobby.

Deal with one problem at a time. 'Have you heard from Mum or Alec tonight?'

Tom is quick. 'Why? What's going on?'

'I don't know. Alec's been trying to call me. When I called him back he didn't answer. Mum's not picking up either.'

'They've been out all day—said they were away for the weekend.'

'Do you know where?'

'They didn't say—I didn't ask.'

I hold in a curse.

'What about'—my voice drops to a whisper—'Dad?'

'What about him?'

'He's still with Aunt Alwen, right?'

'Fred, what's got into you? Dad's behaving—I spoke to Alwen half an hour ago.'

Tom hangs up, letting me know he'll call as soon as he hears from Mum or Alec. I've come to a stand still, phone hot against my cheek. To my left, through the doorway, I can see guests are now standing and the band has kicked back into action. Beth and Jamie are nowhere to be seen. I look ahead to clear my head.

Daniel Latimer's photo is large on the wall. Someone has tucked a spray of blue and white flowers behind a corner of the frame. I squeeze my eyes shut.

The ugly cliff painting rears on my right. It truly is dreadful—something's off with its proportions—like the top is bulging and close up and too heavy so that it's about to crash into the sea.

The double doors out of this building are really the only place left for me to go. Cliffs on the west, Danny to the north, his family on the east. I should laugh; all along I should have gone south for my summer holiday.

Everything is a jumble in my mind. I'm not going anywhere, inside or out.

I'm trapped.

'Is it true?' Beth Latimer almost sounds polite. Almost. 'Are you _their_ son?'

The music doesn't stop. The guests on the dance floor don't draw up in shock. The conversation murmur doesn't die out.

But all I hear is her voice and the rain pounding down, and her fury nails me to the floor. I'm dimly aware of movement behind her.

'Mum—'

A hand flies back in Jamie's face. 'I want to hear what he has to say.'

Paul Coates and Shel reach Jamie, and they crowd the doorway.

Rage builds in Beth's unblinking stare. 'Well? Are you?'

'Yes.'

Shel gasps.

Beth breathes in and anger contorts her mouth into a snarl. I see the effort it takes her to summon control.

'You look like both of them.' Contempt shows in the curl of her lip. 'Pack your things and go.'

My head wants to dip in shame. If I could scratch this guilt out I would. But something defiant screams in me. I force myself to keep my chin up and stare back at her. I give her a wordless nod and an impassive face. When I step past her, I see her fists clench.

Her faces twists in disgust. 'How could you do something so—so cold?'

Confusion settles on Shel. 'Aunt Beth—'

She rounds on Shel. On Jamie. 'Did you know?'

A slamming bang swallows their answers—if they have any. Wind rushes in, catching a vase and rattling the pictures on the wall, as the outside doors swing open.

Beth puts a hand to her mouth.

Wild, unkempt, clearly in a temper, the man I don't call Dad stalks in.

'Beth.' No pause for recognition; he sees her, he greets her, he moves on. To me. 'Are you too good to answer your phone these days?'

'Wha—?'

'Your friends, Rob and Jenna, should have been here hours ago.'

I fumble for my phone as if it has all the answers. 'No, that's not right. They're coming tomor—'

Alec sneers. 'They were coming early to surprise you.'

'But—then where are they?'

'I don't know. I expected them by an hour ago at the latest. With your mother.'


	16. Chapter 16

'Mum's out _there_? And Rob and Jenna?'

The window pane chills my palm. Beyond it, the sea hides itself under wave upon crashing wave. Whatever light is in those grey storm clouds is fading as night falls.

I hear Jamie call out and Mark Latimer respond. The scene of great revelation plays out with my back turned.

'What's up, Jamie? What—eh—Alec Hardy? Beth? What's going on?'

Alec puts his hand on my shoulder. 'You haven't heard from them?' He doesn't sound angry anymore.

I shrug him away, shaking my head. I don't get it. 'Why was she on the boat?'

Confusion resounds in Mark's questions. 'What's going on? Wh—'

Alec rounds on the Latimers. 'You've got a boat missing. White sloop called Sunny Sail. Set off from Christchurch this morning and was supposed to be here by six at the latest. Last contact was shortly before 2pm.'

'Shit.'

'I'm sure there are more ways to be helpful.' Alec is acid.

'No—I mean half the bloody lifeboat force in Broadchurch is boozed up at this party.'

A clatter of glass breaking disrupts the band. The wedding party is cranking up. Shel leans around into the hall and pulls one of the doors shut.

'The rest of them might have difficulty getting down to the lifeboat station—this is the sort of weather which takes out the main road pretty quickly.'

Their voices are an echo—words swirling at the rate of the gale outside. My body feels out to sea; I can hear my heart hammering in my head. The cold travels through my fingers, sinking deep into my skin, up my arms and down my back. Wherever she is my mother is freezing.

Urgency fills Mark Latimer. 'Jamie—round up anyone walking in a straight line—'

Beth, flat and unemotional, cuts in. 'Ellie is on that boat.'

'Eh?'

Alec takes over. He uses Mum's rank in way that makes me wonder what point he is getting at. 'DI Ellie Miller—you remember her, I'm sure—is one of three people on that boat.'

That fires up Beth. 'Is that supposed to rouse our sympathy?'

Spinning around, I could spit tacks. 'That's my mum. And my friends. Or are they guilty by association now too?'

'No. I—'

Beth and Mark Latimer, Shel, Paul Coates—their faces mirror their shock. I don't know why. I fix Beth Latimer with a stare charged with as much disgust as she had for me minutes ago. 'And you think _I'm_ cold-hearted.'

Alec tries to calm me. 'Fred—'

'That's what she's suggesting.'

Mark gives me a perplexed, curious look, while Beth's rage has slipped and her eyes have gone large. Has my accusation touched a nerve? She seems relieved when Jamie returns, leading several men and women.

My heart sinks at the sight of Trevor Chapman. His cheeks are flushed and his voice is too loud. A smattering of brown sauce has dribbled on his shirt. But he may not fail me yet; he has his phone out.

'Getting Coastguard on the line. Pippa'll try the radio—see if we can get contact that way.'

A small man, round and rough, pushes through to the front. 'Was it a white sloop, Trev? I passed one coming in this afternoon. About 3.30pm. Maybe seven or eight mile east, a mile off the coast. She wasn't going great knots, but if she was heading here, she should have made it in before the storm hit.'

Trevor looks from Mark to Alec. 'You've checked the harbour?'

Alec nods. 'We've been back and forth in the hope they've moored up. Lucy's checking with pubs and cafés.'

There's no way they've come ashore without letting us know. No way. Rob and Jenna would never be so irresponsible … and Mum just wouldn't.

Mark has his own phone out and he calls up a coastal map. 'Dick, whereabouts did you see that boat?'

The man—Dick—scratches at his beard. 'I'd say off the coast near Hallowed Rock.'

Trevor points to Alec. 'You don't have a photo of it, do you?'

Alec starts shaking his head, then halts as if he has just remembered something. 'This is from this morning.'

He holds the screen up and we all crowd in to see it better. The picture wobbles as the camera zooms in on Sunny Sail and a figure on board: Mum. Rob and Jenna's legs move behind a sail. Mum, bedecked in vibrant orange life jacket, beams at the camera. 'Last chance to join us.'

Alec, clearly the auteur, replies primly off camera. 'No, thank you. I'll be waiting for you when you get there. No doing anything foolish.'

'You don't know what you're missing.' Mum grins but the boat is already moving and the sound of her laughter doesn't carry. The video cuts off on her wave.

It's short, jerky, vertical—Alec is not Britain's most tech-savvy retired cop—but it's all I can do not to snatch the phone from him and replay. I am not the only one transfixed by the clip. When I look up, I see Beth is still staring, arms wrapped around herself.

'Yep, that's it—that's the boat I saw—I'd swear on it,' Dick says.

Phone at the ready, Trevor has one more question for Alec. 'Any chance they turned back?'

It's an idea to grasp at—a simple explanation—and I take it. 'That's possible, isn't it, Alec? Maybe she changed her mind about coming.'

Alec blinks slowly. 'No. She didn't change her mind.' He speaks with such certainty I wonder what led them up to this day.

Trevor lurches away, talking at great speed into his phone, flagging only Alec over for more detail about those on board. When Trevor disconnects, the others pay attention.

'Coastguard's deploying search drones, but they'll also make checks in every marina between here and Christchurch. Warning has gone out to ships in the area and a navy ship's been called up. They've got a helicopter on standby, but the weather could hamper any manned aerial search.'

'Are we going out?' Mark asks.

'I'm not—and neither are you.' Trevor points a warning finger at Mark. 'You know the rules, Latimer.'

I can see Mark Latimer struggling to restrain himself from argument. Trevor ignores him, gaze fixed on the phone in his hand.

The lobby goes quiet. Then a beep goes off. And another. And another. The men and women who came back with Jamie dig about in pockets and handbags.

'That's us. Briefing at the station'—Trevor taps Mark again in the chest—'you're not coming out _on the lifeboat_ , Mark.'

I watch the group—four men and two women all in their wedding best—head to the door. Several more people appear from the hall. Trevor waves them through. 'If you're up for assisting with the launch, get yourself out to the station.'

He's last to the door. He pauses, looks at me, then looks away. 'Been too long since I've had a drink with Ellie Miller. Be nice to catch up some time.'

Word must be spreading around the hall. The band is between songs. Chloe appears, scanning the lobby, her glance resting with puzzlement on Alec. 'What's happening, Dad?'

'Lifeboat's been called out on a job.'

Chloe glances past me out the external doors. 'Now? In that weather? How inconvenient. Don't they know we're having a party tonight?'

Poor Chloe. There's no harm meant in her humour; it's just one of those things people say. No-one dares laugh.

I hate seeing people hanging. And she wasn't to know. 'Bloody cheek of it,' I say, with as much mirth as I can muster. I wonder how she'll feel when she knows who's on the boat. I wait for Beth to tell her, but nobody speaks. We're all looking at the sea.

Shel and Jamie move to flank me and we stare as a lamplight flicks on, capturing the horizontal slash of rain showering down outside.

Jamie turns. 'We could still go.'

'We could what?' Mark answers.

'We could go out. The Stabi was built to handle this. Hallowed Rock is practically in our backyard. The time it takes for the ship or the drones to get there we could be out and back. If Weymouth's responding it'll be an hour before they get there. The more boats we can get out sooner, the greater the chance of finding them.'

'You know the rules, Jamie.'

'Trev was talking about the lifeboat, Dad. You've had what—one or two drinks?'

Beth lets out an outraged cry. 'You can't seriously be considering this.'

Jamie pushes on. 'You know you're okay, Dad. You and me. We could do it.'

'You're fucking joking—there's no way.' Beth Latimer is like a force of nature herself.

But Jamie doesn't back down. 'I'm good to go, Mum. Haven't had a drop thus far.'

Mark raises an eyebrow. 'That's not like you.'

'Yeah—well—there's reasons …'

Jamie glances my way, and I realise I am somehow part of those reasons.

I glare at him. 'Don't blame me for that. If you'd let me say something weeks ago …'

Shel's eyes narrow, and she looks across me to talk to Jamie. 'You _did_ know.'

Chloe is mystified. 'What are you all talking about?'

It's strange how much I agonised over how and when to tell the Latimers who I was. That was hours and days ago. I find myself far removed from any place of caring. 'My mum's on that boat. You used to know her. Ellie Miller?'

She stares, open-mouthed. 'Fred?'

I can't read her expression.

Mark pockets his phone. 'If we're doing this, we should head out now.'

'Mark—'

'I can't not go, Beth.'

Perhaps she knows the futility of arguing with him. As much as I get the feeling her word is usually the rule, and although she looks troubled, Beth backs off. They all do.

As Mark heads to the door, Alec steps in his path. 'I'll join you.'

Mark pauses before nodding.

Wait … Alec is going? 'I want to come.'

Alec snaps at me. 'Like hell you are.'

'You _hate_ the water.'

'Right. And you're pissed—or near as. If anyone's not going, it's you.'

'Fred, you need to stay.' Shel slips her arm through mine, anchoring me to her as she exchanges a look with Jamie. 'I'll look after him—you go.'

Jamie reaches out and squeezes my hand. 'If they're out there, we'll find them.'

Then he and Alec follow Mark through the door, into the storm. I watch them retreat across the deck and into the darkness.

The Latimer women spring into action. 'I'll make an announcement,' Chloe says. 'Half the guests know now anyway.'

'Are you okay, Shel?' Beth calls.

Shel clutches my arm tightly. 'We'll be fine—I'll take Fred upstairs.'

When we turn, the others—Beth, Chloe and Paul Coates—have already disappeared.

I don't think—I just follow when Shel guides me past the portrait of Danny and up to a small room overlooking the harbour. The darkness is almost complete now. Strong floodlights around the yacht club illuminate the narrow mouth to the harbour, but beyond is blackness and the occasional flash of agitated buoys reflecting in the light.

'Sit down, Fred. I'm getting you a coffee.'

'Am I in exile?'

'What are you talking about?'

'I'm not exactly wanted at this party.'

Shel's response is not exactly what I anticipate. She rolls her eyes. 'I'll be back. Don't move.'

I can't think of anything better to do, so I obey her. The rain is still clattering down and a cackle of static emerges from a wall mounted speaker—something to do with the radio equipment in front of me, I guess. From here club members have a brilliant view of the entrance to the little harbour. It's hard to make sense of distant shapes in the darkness, but I freeze when I see a launch of some sort shine up as it cuts through large swells at the harbour mouth.

Shel steps so lightly on the stairs I don't hear her return. She puts a steaming mug beside me and flops in a chair.

'Bloody hell, Fred, you should've told—'

'Maybe,' I say.

I don't really know. Should I have told Shel?

'I'm glad Beth guessed.' I burn my mouth on the hot drink. 'Otherwise I was going to have to tell her myself. I didn't know how.'

Shel's mouth twitches.

'You think I'm a coward,' I say.

She grimaces and choose not to respond to my comment. 'Why did you come here?'

'Truthfully?' I press back into my chair. 'I wanted Mum to have the chance to leave this shitty town on her own terms.'

Toeing off her giant bridesmaid heels, Shel tucks her feet up under the tulle in her skirt. Like she's settling in. 'But you didn't know she was coming today?'

'I asked her three days ago if she missed it. She spoke about having happy memories. I thought she sounded … reconciled. Like maybe she was already at peace with never returning.'

'She must have already made her mind up to come.'

'It looks that way.' The warmth of the mug between my palms takes the chill out of me. 'You know I'm not drunk, right? Not even close.'

The rain pelting the tin roof eases up. Shel makes a show of leaning over to get a better look out the window where water is gushing into the gutters. 'You didn't see yourself, Fred.'

Before I can ask what she means, the unmistakable trudge of feet on the stairs puts Shel on alert.

'Fred, thank God.' Bedraggled and dripping, my aunt steps into the room. I leap up to help her out of her sodden coat.

'Alec's gone out—'

'Beth told me—Fred, what the hell are you doing here?'

My aunt's admonishment goes no further. Beth stands like a prison guard in the doorway with a determined scowl set on her face. She ignores me, looking straight at Shel.

'You and he—'

Shel coughs into her hand, and I realise there's still part of my sorry saga Beth remains in the dark over. 'Ah—no.'

It crosses my mind to tell her, but I hold back. She doesn't want the answer from me and I think it's something Jamie should do.

Both Shel and Lucy stay quiet, although I can see Lucy looks thoughtful.

'Scoot,' Beth tells Shel, who is by the radio. When Beth starts flicking switches, the static fades in and out. 'I don't want everyone waiting under my feet. Take him next door.'

Shel won't let me argue. She grabs my arm and ushers me into the social room where Trevor left me to wait two weeks ago. The lights aren't on and neither of us bothers to find the switch. Shel navigates me to a long cushioned window seat.

'Are you warm enough?' The rug she tosses at me hits me in the face.

There's not much to say, so we continue staring out into the night until Lucy enters.

'How can you see in here?' She feels around for the light switch but fails to find it. 'They're not far off. There's some large swells on, so it's been slow going.'

I wonder how strained the conversation has been between Beth and Lucy. They've managed to get by the same town for years, but I get the impression that was more by staying out of each other's way.

Waiting is painful. My mind jumps to different scenarios, all with happy endings. Whatever Alec thinks, it makes the most sense that they turned back. That Mum decided she just couldn't face this place.

Lucy periodically checks in with Beth, who won't leave the radio. The band is still playing, but the muffled beat of the drums vibrating the room feels panicky. I suppose, realistically speaking, the volunteer lifeboat crew gets called out all the time. No reason to can the celebration. I wonder if word has gone out just who exactly is on that boat.

Shel stays beside me.

Wrapped in the rug, I pull my knees up, not taking my eyes off the hypnotic crash of waves shattering against the sea wall.

Shel has drifted off but comes to with a jerk when a floorboard squeaks. She squints at the dark shape of Beth.

'Have they found them?'

Beth shakes her head. 'They've found debris in the water.'


	17. Chapter 17

'What sort of debris?'

For the first time since our confrontation, Beth answers me directly. 'Boat cushions, a life jacket—it doesn't necessarily mean anything.'

She's right. Things fall off boats (or get tossed) all the time—enterprising bods have made a fortune harvesting plastic from the ocean. If I focus on the rhythm of the rain, on the crash of the waves, on the thickness of the rug, I can stay right here, in the here and now. Where nothing concrete is known and nothing has to hurt yet.

Because the future might. 'Tom! I need to call him.'

Beth comes down to us, faint light streaming through the window making her face visible. 'Lucy's doing that now.'

I sit up, the rug falling from my knees. 'You have to let me listen. I want to hear what's happening.'

Shel stiffens. 'That's not good idea—'

Beth flicks an unreadable glance toward the sea. When she looks back to me, she nods.

If waiting for news was painful before, now it is excruciating. I almost regret my decision to stand over the radio—the talk between the Coastguard, who are co-ordinating the search, the drone operators analysing the images and data they're receiving, and the lifeboat crew is sporadic and mundane and full of terminology I don't understand. Beth translates their conversation when Shel and I go blank.

'How can the search drone see anything?' Shel asks, 'it's pitch black outside and raining.'

'It'll be using a thermal tracker mainly, in this weather,' Beth says.

At first I like the sound of that—then a drawback jumps out at me. What if there's nothing warm for it to find? The thought almost makes me gag.

In desperation I grasp for a distraction. I don't think, I just ask. 'Do you do this often?'

Maybe she doesn't like me, but Beth's cool collectedness is reassuring. She sounds confident, like this is nothing new to her.

'Mark and I volunteered after the kids got older. It can get busy on the water around here in summer.' When she finishes, Beth's nose crinkles as if the sound of her own voice has surprised her.

I stop short of thanking her. My gratitude might be unwelcome. She might tell me she's just doing what's expected of her.

Another crackle through the speaker warns us to be quiet. Beth's face scrunches up as she listens. When the short message is over, she lets out a small breath. 'They've cleared the helicopter for take off.'

Lucy looks in from the hallway. 'No change, Beth?'

After Beth shakes her head, Lucy seeks me out. 'Tom's on his way. Is there anyone we should be calling for your friends, Fred?'

Christ. What kind of friend am I? I fumble for my phone. 'I think I have a number for one of Jenna's sisters.'

The room is too crowded and I need space to make the call. Going into the empty social room, I find the contact details I need and dial. As phone calls go, it might just be the worst I've ever had to make, but Jenna's sister is calm and rational and says she'll inform Rob's family.

They're all based in London and she asks me to keep her updated.

When I make it back to the radio room, Paul Coates is just arriving from downstairs. He asks for news almost apologetically. 'Everyone's asking what's happening.'

Beth hears his question and answers before I have a chance, telling him about the items pulled from the water but emphasizing the lack of any definitive information.

'Is there anything practical we can do?' Paul replies. 'Chloe told the band to play on but most of us are milling around, feeling slightly useless.'

Beth smirks. 'I'd suggest a prayer or two—but you did say practical.'

From her tone of voice, I expect Paul to take offence, but his smile is good natured. A joke between friends maybe. 'You think I should stick to what I know?'

'It's what you're best at …'

Paul takes his news downstairs. I can't bring myself to sit down again. Pacing back and forth along the hallway, I lose my sense of time and experience a pang when I check my phone. Jamie left more than ninety minutes ago. How much longer will they stay out there? The searchers find a couple more things—another cushion and some bottles. Random items—nothing to say where they came from.

The only positive sign is an easing off in the wind.

When we hit the two-hour mark, I find myself heading downstairs, passing Paul again. The party has spread out from the hall. I notice a couple of small groups of people, heads all bent in what appears to be serious conversation.

As I pass one, a woman reaches her arm out. 'Are you Ellie Miller's son?'

Such a direct query would have freaked me out yesterday. 'Ah—yes.'

'I used to work with your mother. I hope she's okay.'

How do you reply to something like this? I say thank you and move on, driven by restlessness and unease.

When I hear my name being shouted, I think my heart actually stops. _This is it._

'Fred! Fred!' Shel tears down the stairs. 'Fred, they've found them! They've found them!'

She pulls me into a hug, dancing me around the room. 'They're alive—they're in the water, but they're alive.'

Relief floods me. From head to toe I feel alive with joy. Bullet dodged.

Shel's shouts draw excitement from the wedding guests, and many break into smiles.

But Shel's good news is tempered by the serious expression on Paul Coates' face. He has followed Shel, hearing her exuberant cry, and is quick with a sobering truth.

'They're alive, but at least one of them needs urgent medical care. They're talking about a head injury.'

Shel comes to an immediate standstill. 'But they're okay, right?'

Paul looks serious. 'They're saying they need to winch the male off the lifeboat.'

* * *

From the tiny radio, the story plays out.

Beth fills me in. 'Your friend has some sort of head injury—they need to get him checked out as soon as possible—but he's aware.'

That means Rob is being winched by helicopter from the lifeboat in a stretcher. 'Rob's conscious? He'd hate to miss that!' I'm too euphoric to talk sense.

'For these guys, it's relatively straight forward,' Beth says. 'They practise this sort of manouevre all the time.'

'And Mum and Jenna?'

'On board with Mark. They're already on their way back.'

I might just cry.

Jenna's sister does when I call her. Gone is the calm, reasoned woman I was talking to less than an hour ago. I can hear excited voices in the background as Jenna's family celebrates. Tom is on the road. He lets out a whoop and Lucy tells him he's not to speed under any circumstances.

The pall cast over the party has lifted.

Despite the rain—and the wind which is still ferocious—I'm joined on the dock by I don't know how many party goers, including many of the volunteers who didn't go on the mission.

It's impossible to put into words the feelings which wash over me when the Latimers' launch powers into the harbour.

* * *

Mark and Jamie don't muck around.

'Where's that ambulance?' Jamie calls from the side of the boat as Mark brings it in. The hardest part of the rescue is over, but the way the boat is rolling on the turbulent water won't make getting off easy.

Trevor Chapman appears at my side, his hands anchoring his hat against the head. His voice carries across the waves to Mark Latimer. 'Taking the long way round—main road's flooded.'

Alec emerges from the cabin, grasping a rail with a death-like grip, the skin on his gaunt cheeks rippling in the howling wind.

Jamie tosses out ropes to waiting hands which reach out to share in securing them. Trevor Chapman's volunteers—still neatly dressed for the wedding—haul the boat against the wharf. Men I do not know swarm aboard, swinging a stretcher over as they go.

They're back scant seconds later bearing someone under a survival blanket.

'Gentle, gentle gentle.' Mark's command elicits an instant response from the men on land who brace themselves in a line to receive the stretcher. 'Get her inside quick.'

A cry goes out—I don't recognise my voice—and Jenna opens her eyes, thick red hair sticking to her face.

'Hey, Fred,' she whispers. 'Surprise.'

My fingers touch the crinkling silver blanket she is cocooned in before she's borne off at pace.

'Ellie?'

Feet finally on trustworthy ground, Alec reaches out and I see my mother in person for the first time in two months. Sodden and on her feet. A blanket of some sort has slipped off her shoulders. She stands unaided, preparing to clamber over the side.

As her hands go out, the boat rolls, picked up in a violent motion, and I see concern cross her face.

Mark appears at her side, putting a hand out to steady her. 'You shouldn't be standing—'

'I can do this,' I hear her say, and she leans toward Alec. He is not the only one. There are bodies—wedding guests, lifeguard volunteers, even Paul Coates—around us, arms out in case she needs them.

When she touches the ground, her knees start to sink, and Alec's arm supports her until she straightens and looks around her at rescuers. All of them.

She opens her mouth, her chest going in and out heavily. The stinging rain can not disguise her distress from me. It's not rain running down her cheeks.

'Ellie, you nee—' My mother doesn't heed the warning in Mark's voice.

When our eyes lock, she gives me something I don't deserve. A smile unfurling in an instant. 'Fred.'

'Mum.'

She stumbles, soaking and chilled, into my hug and I try to give her every ounce of warmth my cold-hearted body can summon.

'Come on,' Alec says, his arm again across her back. 'Inside.'

The yacht club is bare yards away and Mum walks before anyone can stop her. I feel people closing protectively around us.

The double doors to the lobby have been flung wide. On either side, guests have braved the rain, bunched up on the steps, to watch the rescue unfold.

One figure stands in the doorway. Beth Latimer doesn't move; her face is a study in marble. Smooth, white and inscrutable.

With one step to go, my mother raises her head. The rain has slicked down her tight crop of curls. Her eyes go wide, as if at last she comprehends where she is. With Alec on one side and me on the other, we guide her forward.

'Come on, Mum. Mum?' I feel her sag against my grip. 'Mum?'

Before I know what's happening, she is dropping in my arms, and Alec lets out an alien cry.

The life has died on my mother's face.


	18. Chapter 18

'Shit.' Mark is pushing through from nowhere. 'Stubborn woman. Beth!'

'Ellie? Ellie!' Alec and Lucy are calling.

'Inside, now!' Beth's voice cracks.

Alec—not a large man—is not waiting for me. He is scooping my mother up. Delivering her over the threshold into the lobby.

'Down here, Alec. Ellie?'

Beth herself is dropping to her knees and leaning over my mother. 'I don't think she's breathing.' Fingers lace through fingers as she brings the heel of a hand to my mother's chest. 'One, two, three—the AED, now!'

She misses no beat. 'Get these clothes off. Use scissors. Use anything. How far away is that ambulance? On 30 Alec, pinch her nose, tip her head back and breath—two breaths, okay?'

She isn't waiting for Alec to nod. 'Twenty-nine, 30. Breathe.'

I'm watching on in horror, the scene playing out in front of me intense frame by intense frame. I shake myself. 'What's wrong? She was fine. She was walking.'

Suddenly, it's me being pushed beyond the rain and through the doors. I feel something warm at my side—Jamie is tucking my hand in his. Beth resumes her compressions. A knife is thrust into Lucy's hands, and she hacks away at my mother's jersey and shirt.

'Where's that AED?' Beth yells and a wedding-goer dashes to a stop, popping open one of those yellow emergency kit boxes you see everywhere in supermarkets and public spaces.

'Get that thing on—28, 29, 30. Breathe, Alec.'

When he looks up, she issues a new command. 'Grab that towel. Dry her off.'

Beth rips a seal from a pad and with no hesitation presses it above my mother's left breast. She grabs a second pad and presses it under her right breast. The machine has flicked into life. 'Right, hands off.'

We stop. All of us. Beth waits, taut, as an automated voice tells us it is analyzing. ' _Shock advised. Stand clear_.'

Jamie squeezes tight when Mum's torso jolts off the carpet and Beth tenses. 'Wait … Right. We start again.'

This time the machine counts for her.

'Is it doing any good?' Alec can't hide his panic. I've never seen him like this.

'Just keep breathing.' Beth looks up and around. The marble is starting to slip; there is a worry in her mouth, in her eyes. 'How far away is that ambulance?'

There is no sign of life in my mother at all.

I can't keep up with the people flowing around me. Jamie tugs me out of the way. The room is a blur and voices drift and wash away.

' _Shock advised. Stand clear_.'

I hear, distinctly, 'Don't you die on me—not like this.'

The automated voice keeps talking from under the huddle surrounding my mother. How strange to have come so far—and through so much—on the water only fail on land. My glance travels up and settles on the painting. The ugly, oily, brooding cliffs. 'You!'

I'm on my feet, shoving people out of my way and ignoring their umbrage. 'What's he—'

Jamie calls. 'Fred?'

He can't stop me.

'I hate you!' I seize the painting, hook and all, and smash it against my knee. The mangled frame and canvas go flying out the door and into the storm.

I watch with grim satisfaction as the ambulance pulls up to—and over—that detested artwork.

* * *

Paramedics scramble from the vehicle and up the deck. They surround my mother, pulling medical paraphernalia from kits. I see Beth talking before one of them moves in beside her, preparing to take over.

My mother is wheeled into the ambulance in amazing haste. She still hasn't moved, and they're still doing CPR. With the paramedics standing over her, and Jenna warming under her blankets, there's little room left. Alec, Lucy and I watch as they speed away.

'Where are they taking her?' I ask.

Paul Coates pulls on a jacket, holding up his keys to me for the second time today. 'I'll take you.'

'Room for us?' Jamie grabs his mother's hand and pulls her forward.

* * *

There's no-one else in the waiting room, so the doctor comes straight to us. The look on her face gives nothing away. 'Are you here for Ellie Miller and Jenna Harley?'

Alec bounds to his feet. 'I'm Ellie's partner. This is her son. Jenna is a friend. Are they okay?'

'Jenna is conscious—if you'd like to see her.' The doctor frowns and my heart responds with a stutter. 'Ellie began breathing unassisted in the ambulance but she hasn't regained consciousness. We've stabilised her, but I have to be clear about this—the next 48 hours are critical—'

Alec interrupts. 'But she's breathing?'

'Yes—'

'Thank God!' Lucy hugs me as a sigh of relief goes round our group.

I want answers. 'What happened? She was all right and then she just dropped.'

'It can happen after a person has been rescued from water. The body struggles to adjust to the changes in pressure. It can lead—as with Ellie—to ventricular fibrillation.'

My face is blank.

'Your mother went into cardiac arrest,' she says.

'Can we see her?' I ask.

I think the doctor recognises the futility of saying no. 'I'll let you know when you can go in. Two at a time, five minutes only, okay? As part of her treatment we're keeping her in a state of mild hypothermia in ICU. She'll feel cold, but you will still be able to touch her.'

All I want is a smile from this doctor. 'But she's going to be fine, right?'

I don't get one. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and won't meet my eye.

'Resuscitation isn't a straight forward process. We can't really know how Ellie has been affected until she's awake, but if we wake her too suddenly we may cause more harm. Keeping her cool and then slowly warming her up is one way we can help her brain recover.'

The doctor starts turning.

'Wait—what about Rob Strang? Was he flown here? Can you tell me how he is?'

She shakes her head. 'Not here, sorry.'

'How do I find out where Rob is?'

The doctor frowns again, then looks relieved when Beth steps in. 'Let me make a call for you, Fred. He was probably lifted to a larger hospital.'

When they let us look in on Mum, it frightens me to see all the machines they have her hooked up to. Things that beep and hum with electrical indifference. I want to sit and hold her hand, but I'm too scared to touch her.

Alec shows no such fear. He doesn't say anything—that's never been his style—but he knows Mum never misses a hug if she can help it. He wraps her hand in his.

I leave them alone.

* * *

Jenna beams at me from under her blankets when I sweep back the curtain around her bed.

I lean over to kiss her forehead. 'Want some visitors?'

'Next time Rob wants to go sailing, we're going to the tropics,' she whispers in a raspy voice. Her eyes go big when Jamie enters.

'Forget the tropics—hot tubs only for you guys from now on,' I say.

Her lips tremble, then she grimaces. 'Please—no jokes. It's like my face has been rubbed against a grater.'

There's no need to tell her about my mother—she was in the ambulance when Mum's heart re-started—but there is news she needs to hear. 'Jenna, Rob's in surgery in Dorchester.'

'Do you know how he is?'

'As soon as I can tell you something I will, and once they let you out, Jamie says he'll drive you over there.'

'This must be Jamie.' The blanket rustles as she waves from underneath it. 'Hello—I've been dying to meet you—literally as it turns out.'

A second too late she blanches. 'Fred, I'm so sorry.'

'Thought you said no jokes?' I hope my half-smile reassures her. Mum would never want us to miss a chance for a laugh. 'Are you up for telling us what happened?'

Jenna fights to take a deep breath and her voice strengthens.

'There was no warning. One second we were cutting into the wind. Next thing, this monster wave from nowhere slams into the side of us.

She shivers. 'I didn't see Rob or Ellie—I think I went over first. It was awful. You don't know which way is up or down—or when you get to breathe again—thank God your Mum made me put the life jacket on.'

The effort of telling us costs Jenna, and she pauses.

'When I popped up, I heard your mum calling for me but I couldn't see her or Rob. The boat was on its side.

'I kept hearing your mum so I kept moving.'

She swallows.

'I was so relieved when I got round the boat. Ellie was holding on to Rob. He had a life jacket on and it was keeping them afloat. When I got closer I could see he wasn't right. Ellie thinks he struck his head on a rail when he went over. He was sort of awake, but we had to take turns to keep him focused.'

Watching Jenna tear up chastens me. I hate making her relive this. 'You don't have to do this now—'

She carries on, ignoring me. 'The boat was gone in minutes, but there were things in the water. Ellie grabbed a cooler and we all sort of tried to huddle around that. We were doing okay until the wind came up.

'I honestly don't know how much longer we'd have held out. Actually—I don't know how we held out as long as we did. I don't know what else you'd call a miracle.'


	19. Chapter 19

Hospital waiting chairs thwart any attempt at sleep.

When it's clear waiting is the only thing left to do, Paul ferries Beth and Jamie back to the wedding reception. Jamie promises to be back by eight in the morning. None of us—Lucy, Alec and I—considers going home, and we commandeer the waiting room. Long after midnight, a furious buzzing at the nurse's station in A&E heralds Tom's arrival at the front door. An on-duty nurse takes pity on us, fetching blankets and tea while we bring him up to speed.

I don't think any of us sleeps properly—even after the storm blows itself out and the wind dies to a whimper.

The doctor assesses our bleary eyed appearances in the morning. 'You really should go home—we're monitoring Ellie and she's stable. We'll call you if there's any change.'

Perhaps it's the sight of each other that convinces Lucy and Tom to listen to her. Lucy has dark shadows under her eyes; Alec and Tom are on the seedy side five o'clock. I run my hand over my own rough cheeks.

Alec does his own thing, and none of us dares argue with him. The nursing staff say he won't be in the way, so we leave him curled up in a chair in Mum's room. For a lanky man, he folds into a soft knot. As we walk out, Lucy hesitates, grabs one of our discarded blankets and returns to drape it over Alec, who finally appears to be sleeping. She departs, looking pleased with herself.

When I check in on Jenna, she tells me she is being discharged after breakfast. She's grateful when Jamie and Shel show up—Shel toting a sports bag, which she hands to Jenna.

'It's nothing fancy, I'm sorry, but between Chloe and me, we think we've got enough to keep you decent.'

Jenna is only half joking when she say she feels bad about ruining Chloe's wedding reception.

'One hell of a party, for sure,' Shel says.

Jamie clicks his fingers. 'I nearly forgot. All your video stuff from the party, Fred—we collected it this morning. It's round at Mum and Dad's.'

It's a quick trip to the larger hospital in Dorchester. Rob is recovering from surgery to relieve pressure on his brain. He fractured his skull when Sunny Sail capsized. Once we deliver Jenna and check up on him, they make us turn back.

'We'll be fine. Rob's family is on their way. You've got more important things to handle.'

Jenna follows me out of Rob's ward to say goodbye. 'Fred, I know your Mum will downplay it, but she saved Rob's life—she probably saved mine as well.'

* * *

By evening the ICU staff start the process of warming up Mum, but they warn us it's a gradual, precise process which'll take hours.

The doctor rattles off some scary survival statistics which I choose to ignore.

As Alec settles in for his second night of vigil, I hand him a shopping bag of supplies, which he snatches at.

'Did you get them?'

When I'd asked what he wanted, he'd had only one request.

'The grapes? Yeah—they're in there, but you know Mum's more of a chocolate woman, right?'

Alec mumbles something I can't make out and clutches the grape bag to his chest before closing his eyes again.

 _Way to woo the lady, Alec—warm,_ smooshed _grapes always go down a treat._

I force myself to go back to my hostel room. Cat's out of the bag, so it's not really necessary anymore—except that Lucy's house isn't big and I've paid for the room and it's kind of become my home away from home.

I lie on the bed staring up.

For the first time in two days I feel still enough to think about the magnitude of what's happened.

Only, I can't think.

All I can feel is a great pressure in my chest, wetness welling in the corners of my eyes and the slime of tears rolling down my cheeks.

* * *

In the end—or the beginning—it's me and Alec by her bed. Lucy and Tom wait outside. Too many people might confuse or overwhelm Mum, the nurses say.

The room feels warmer, and colour has returned to her cheeks. I have to rein in my excitement. That doesn't mean anything.

Alec catches it first. His sharp intake of breath alerts me. Mum's lovely lashes flutter. We lean in and her eyes peep open.

Alec has no sense of timing.

'Here.' He plonks the bag of grapes on the bed just beyond her reach. 'You nearly died on me.'

Her eyes widen then close, but her chapped lips part, and we have to lean closer to hear her. 'How did it feel?'

'Worst two days of my life.'

Her eyes flicker again. 'Where am I?'

She winces and rubs her throat.

Alec answers. 'Broadchurch. In hospital.'

'I don—'

'Your heart stopped. You weren't supposed to bloody try and drag yourself up the ladder. You were supposed to lie down when you were told. You were supposed to let us take care of you.'

She whispers, 'I had to walk—'

'You had to be bloodyminded!'

'Rob? Jenna?'

'Both better off than you.'

'Mark Latimer … on the boat. I saw Beth … '

I feel it's about my turn to take over. Alec's bedside manner lacks finesse. 'She saved your life, Mum. When you stopped breathing—'

'Oh.' Mum's gaze drifts off to the wall. Away from us.

That's not what I was expecting. Why isn't she a little more happy? Relieved? Thankful?

'Tom and Lucy are here. Waiting outside.'

Her brows wrinkle as she looks back at us. 'Outside?'

'The nurses said only two people at a—'

Mum's tiny smile appears. 'What? Alec following hospital rules now?'

After all the pain, all the doctor's facts and figures, my concern has melted away: she's tired; she's weak and maybe a little disoriented, but she is still Mum.

While Alec might be fine about flouting hospital regulations, I keep an eye out for ICU staff when I wave in Tom and Lucy. I cast a glance around the waiting room. It's empty.

* * *

Whatever tests Mum has to sit to satisfy the doctors, she's passing in leaps and bounds. Her voice and body strengthen and the results on her charts make the doctors and nurses upbeat.

A day after she wakes, they deem her stable enough to move out of the ICU.

Tom, Lucy and I are a jitter of nerves as Alec wheels her toward the new room. The scent is so strong I'm afraid it'll give the game away.

Her hand goes to her mouth. 'Oh my God. What's this?'

Flowers—all sorts, all colours—overflow the room. But the predominant theme coming through is white and blue.

'Word got out that you were in town,' Lucy says. 'People saying it with flowers, aren't they?'

* * *

Jamie messages me to say he'll drop around after his next shift, but when general visiting hours (which we ignore) are nearly up in the afternoon, a twinge of disappointment stings me.

I had thought—had been damn sure—another Latimer would show up.

She leaves it to the very last minute. I'm out in the waiting room, replying to a message, as she emerges from another room.

'Beth?'

'Fred.' Beth bites her lip when she catches sight of me. 'I—ah—Sandra needed some things—'

The vidographer who shattered her pelvis the morning of Chloe's wedding has a long recovery ahead of her.

I study Beth, noting the balled fists at her sides. I put her on the spot. 'Mum's doing really well. Would you like to see her?'

She meets me with a self-conscious laugh. 'I'm not sure—'

'I'm sure she'd like the chance to thank you.'

She has nowhere to fly. As trapped as I was on Saturday night, she nods.

Mum finally convinced Alec to head to Lucy's place for a clean, so she is on her own, propped against giant pillows. Her smile vanishes when she looks from me to my guest.

Beth edges into the room. 'Ellie—how are—I—'

'No.'

Both Beth and I freeze.

'Mum, I think—'

'Sweetheart.' The expression on my mother's face is tender and she speaks as if only I am in the room. 'Beth,' she says, choosing her words with care, 'owes me nothing—and I … I owe her nothing.'

Beth puts a hand to her mouth, smothering a sob.

Mum turns to Beth with open arms. 'All I am is just so very, very grateful.'

* * *

I seek tea.

The nursing staff dig me out a tray and I make sure the cups and teapot rattle and clatter on it before I enter Mum's room again.

Beth takes the cup I offer with relief. I pretend not to notice when she sets the cup down to brush her face with the back of her hand. Mum doesn't bother to disguise the evidence of her tears.

I get the feeling they have not been happy tears. There's too much anguish in the room. Too many years of an unhealed grief left to fester.

God knows what they've been saying to each other—or if they've said anything at all. They're both silent now.

With sadness, it dawns on me why some breaks should be clean. The wound between them needed to be dealt with—but where do Mum and Beth go from here?

They don't get back what's been lost to them—all the weddings, births, deaths, wins, losses, the shared pics and holiday anecdotes. The late night phone calls, wine on Sunday afternoons. The chance to remember shared memories.

How do you get past something so brutal? I want to shake them. How could they let one crime—terrible though it was—destroy so much for so long? It stole lives, it stole hopes, expectations, relationships.

Beth and my mother both have their own actions and reactions to live with. Somehow I bet they've lost more sleep to their feelings than my father ever did.

How my mother doesn't hate my father suddenly makes no sense to me.

When Mum's eyelids begin to droop, Beth stands. 'I should let you get some sleep.'

She seems a little out-of-practice with farewells; she looks down and wipes invisible crumbs off her lap like she doesn't know what else to do.

Mum makes it easy for her. She reaches out to hug Beth again. 'I missed you.'

Beth waits until she's out of the room to break down.

* * *

All that fuss about a stupid storm and the weather is back to hot. While Mum dozes I soak in the sunshine streaming through her window. The main road out of Broadchurch runs by the hospital. It poses a practical question: where to from here?

Mum startles me. 'Are you ready to tell me?'

'Tell you what?'

'Why you _had_ to come to Broadchurch.'

'I don't know.' I stare at my hands, which are so like hers. 'There seemed like a story to be told.'

I struggle to find words to explain myself. 'I wanted to see things for myself.'

I sound pathetic—and seeing my mother laid out on a hospital bed because she followed me here fills me with shame.

'I found an old box of things you saved.'

I describe finding the little police figurines and thrill when her eyes brighten. I talk about seeing the photographs of her parents for the first time and reading Olly's scrapbooks, and wondering why she never asked for the keepsakes to be sent on to her.

'You even had a big wooden jewellery box.'

'Ahhh.' Mum nestles further into her pillows. 'I'd forgotten about that. Was it locked?'

I nod.

'It can stay that way.'

'What's in—'

'Letters.'

I'm silent, hoping she'll elaborate.

'I nearly burned that box.' She pulls a flower from a bedside vase and tracing its outline of petals with a finger. 'I didn't—for you and Tom.'

Letters from Dad. They have to be. The type you treasure. God, they must be like poison now. Why would she think Tom or I'd want them? Unless …

I shiver in the sunlight.

'What if I'm like _him_?'

With a small voice, huddled by the window, I confess the thing which has haunted me for as long as I've understood it. 'What if I'm like Dad? What if I'm like Dad and I don't know it?'

I watch my mother's heart break. She gingerly steps to the floor and closes the distance between us.

'Fred,' she says, taking me in her arms and warming my chilled heart, 'I can't see the secrets in your heart—nobody can—but I know this: as long as you stay the caring, respectful, truthful person you have always been, you will never be like your father. _Never_.'


	20. Chapter 20

'You're still okay with this? You can pull out at any point—'

Beth lifts her chin, rolling her eyes. 'We'll be fine, Fred. Roll camera, is that what you say?' She waves me on with the job.

This situation is so unexpected—so unbelievable—I'm wary of jinxing it. It doesn't feel real. I check the scene on screen, drawing back to make subtle adjustments.

Mark and Beth, on their couch, in their living room. The same house Jamie grew up in. Danny lived in.

Only one thing is certain—this documentary will be nothing I expected it to be.

My heart hasn't stopped racing since I reviewed the first footage from the wedding reception—from a camera mounted in the lobby to catch comings and goings from the main reception room.

'Holy fuck.'

Jamie had looked over my shoulder. 'No way!'

Spellbound, we had watched as the night of my mother's rescue unwound in front of us. There was me pacing, phone at my ear, brought to a halt by Beth's ominous appearance. Her ferocity dominates the screen until, suddenly, she swivels and her rage crumples to shock—Alec's off-camera arrival stuns her.

I had found myself squeezing my eyes shut when Alec lays my mother's lifeless body on the floor and Beth drops to her side. Peering through splayed fingers, I took in the frantic panic of my mother's rescuers and the way horror is writ on the faces of those who close in on the space she leaves when she is wheeled out.

Jamie had cupped his hands over his mouth. 'That—that's too good to waste …'

I couldn't disagree with him—but we're just the bit players in this drama. 'Do you think your parents would talk?'

'I'll speak to them.' Jamie had tipped his head to one side, assessing me. 'There's one thing I don't get—what did you have against that painting?'

* * *

I'm there when Jamie broaches the topic with Beth and Mark. They weren't home when I went round to collect the video gear, so I've been formally invited back to dinner. I turn up trying to control all the jitters you expect when you're about to meet your boyfriend's parents for the first time.

Beth's welcome feels forced and she won't meet my eye when I hand her flowers. She invites me in, calls to Jamie, then faffs about, turning out cupboards in the hunt for a vase. When she finds one, she plays with the carnations, ostensibly arranging them to some individual aesthetic.

At last she takes a deep breath and surrenders. 'Fred, I'm sorry. The other night. I was appalling—'

'I accept.'

'I—'

I shake my head, stopping her. 'I know you were shocked. I know the timing was bad. I'm sorry I put you in that situation.'

Each of us looks away.

'Is your mum—'

'Doing well. The doctors say she's beaten the odds. A full recovery.'

'That's a re—'

Jamie's arrival puts a halt to this thread of conversation.

'Hey you,' he says, greeting me with a kiss.

Beth stares before throwing her arms up. 'I knew it. I knew you were seeing someone—being so secretive and all.'

Aghast, I push Jamie out at arm's length. 'What—you mean you haven't told her?'

Jamie looks unrepentant. 'I thought it would be easier showing her.'

* * *

We are all on our best behaviour over tea. I call it a truce. The long process of peace negotiation needs to start somewhere. Over a meal seems as good a place as any.

But brokering peace is going to require honesty—facing up to the bitterness of the past. And I don't mean me.

Mark sets down his fork. 'I see the house is on the market. Sign was up this morning.'

He looks at me so there's no doubt which house he is talking about.

'Why Mum was coming here—one reason, anyway.' A sip of wine fortifies me. 'She felt it was time to let go.'

'No-one understood why she wanted to keep hold of it,' Beth says.

I can't answer for my mother, but I can see they expect some reply.

'She never discussed it with us. At a guess, she just locked everything away. She's done a lot of stuff over the years. She and Alec have travelled a bit. I think she was doing her damnedest to put this place out of her mind. Dad's parole'—I pause, observing their passive expressions—'just brought everything flooding back.'

It's a game to see who will breath first. We are all still. Until Beth nods. 'Makes sense.'

I don't know that it does—but that's something they should take up with Mum.

'So that's why Ellie came. What about you, Fred? What made you come here?'

I feel like I have a different answer for everyone who asks me—but every answer is the truth.

'You can't spend your whole life knowing about a place without being a little curious. Wouldn't be normal—'

'And,' says Jamie, seizing the opportunity and coaxing me to a full confession.

'And—well—I sort of had an idea for a project.'

Mark is interested. 'What kind of project?'

Revealing an idea to friends is hard enough. My hand snakes up to scratch my head, a sort of self-conscious defence. 'It's sort of naff … I—I make films, you see.'

Mark and Beth give me blank expressions.

'Growing up I always wondered about this place. How could a place I'd never been to be such a huge part of my life?

'There was never any question of visiting Lucy or—or coming here for a holiday. Mum would never talk about it—yet I knew it had been her whole life. It just seemed cruel.

'Putting it on film. A—a documentary telling my story—that was going to be my way of understanding. Understanding me. Understanding Mum.'

* * *

Mark and Beth ask for time to think over my request. They don't outright reject it, but they don't hide their uncertainty. As I help Beth clear the table I tell her to take as much time as she needs.

In the kitchen she pauses, dishes half stacked. 'What was it like for you, Fred? Growing up?'

I shrug off her question. 'Don't know. Normal? That's probably a better question for Tom. _I_ never knew anything different. Mum kept us busy. She was always taking us places, taking photos. Making good memories, she called it.'

Beth resumes her task, scraping leftover casserole into a container. 'You know this won't be easy? You and Jamie together. For any of us.'

'I know.'

Beth turns and for the first time this evening I feel she really looks at me.

'You look like both of them—but you have Ellie's colouring—and her eyes. That's what struck me. I couldn't put my finger on it. Paul was the same.'

'It's a little hard to go changing those things.'

She laughs. 'No, I don't mean—you didn't ask for any of this. You can't help who you look like—none of us can.'

* * *

I can't help who I look like—but I can control what I do. Mum was right.

I reckon Dad's self-deception was about fear. A way to protect himself against what he was. I mean, who'd willing put their hand up and say, 'hey, I like kids …' No-one's going to say that about themselves.

I guess Dad tried really hard to deny he was that man—and maybe that made him willfully blind. Any threat of exposure, anything which forced him to confront himself—poor Danny.

If Dad had had even just a small amount of self-awareness, what then? What if there had been some way to help him?

It's useless speculating.

Nothing changes that Danny's life was cut short, or that my mother and Beth have lost twenty-five years of friendship, or that so many people got hurt.

If Dad could have been honest with himself maybe this story would have ended differently.

* * *

They all talk in the end, even Alec—even though he grumbles through the interview set up.

Turns out the camera loves him and he glares at me and tells me not to be a numpty when I ask if he ever considered a career in film.

Mum takes the most persuading at first—until Alec testily tells her they won't get any peace at home until I've managed to forge a career for myself and I'll never get a more juicy story to tell so she might as well and anyway Olly is already circling for an exclusive …

Then Mum tells Alec that she thinks she should leave Broadchurch by boat so as not to develop any phobias about sailing and since he's recently been out on the water maybe he should think about giving it a go too?

It's all farce between those two.

But on camera … on camera Mum pours her heart out.

* * *

'Is this where we get to call it a wrap?' Jamie grins and hands me a beer. He's enjoyed playing assistant.

The cameras are off.

Mark and Beth have closed the door behind them—heading to the pub where they'll meet Mum and Lucy (and Alec, if he caves to Mum's harranguing) for a quiet pint in what's bound to ignite the most salacious piece of town gossip since—well—since Chloe and Dean's wedding.

'Hmm.' The tap of my fingers on the tabletop is loud.

Jamie's eyes glint. 'You've had an idea. C'mon—out with it!'

The story I want to tell is starting to form in my head, but something is missing.

One person's voice remains unaccounted for.

I look at Jamie, weighing the wisdom of my idea. Every relationship needs the occasional test, doesn't it? If ours survives this one, maybe we really will be it for the long haul.

'How would you feel about a trip to Cardiff?'

* * *

**The End**


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